


An Ocean Between Us

by radstarmuffin



Category: Rune Factory (Video Games), Rune Factory 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Background Relationships, Enemies to Lovers, Lest and Frey are twin siblings, M/M, Multi, Pirate-typical violence, Trans Lest, also i may have tagged too many characters? idk. sorry lol, anyways are yall ready for like. an actual plot??? wild amiright, i mean. bc this is me writing. everyone is present and accounted for at some point, namely Xiao Pai/Amber and Forte/Meg, the ones in the relationship tag will be like. plot relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radstarmuffin/pseuds/radstarmuffin
Summary: Lest didn't exactly intend to become the captain of one of the most well-known pirate ships there is. Then again, it's hard to speak on intentions when you have as many gaps in your memory as Lest and his sister do. Regardless, they were given a place to belong and to prove their worth, and Lest will be damned if he doesn't do everything in his power to return the favor tenfold.It would just be a whole lot easier to do that if he didn't have to worry about the damnGuardianand her infuriating captain gunning them down every chance they get.---The new greenhorn captain of theLadyis definitely fun to mess with, Leon can't deny that, but this is no laughing matter. Not anymore. Leon needs answers. He had one condition to his assuming control of this crew, this ship, and he doesn't make a habit of breaking his promises. If he can makecertain peoplesquirm a little in the meanwhile, that's just a bonus.
Relationships: Clorica/Dolce (Rune Factory), Frey/Doug/Dylas (Rune Factory), Leon/Lest (Rune Factory)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. Storm on the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quinn_is_Here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinn_is_Here/gifts).



> Hello and welcome to my rune factory fic writers discord secret santa gift for Quinn!!! Which! Very quickly! Got extremely out of hand! And absolutely no one was surprised by this!! lol
> 
> I'm really kind of flying by the seat of my pants with the genre and depth of plot of this one, but I'm very much invested in and enjoying this AU and i already have the whole thing outlined out in varying degrees of detail - the 15 chapter count is actually a little optimistic tbh, right now there are more like 20 possible chapters sectioned out ahaha ^^;; can you tell i bit off a little more than i could chew?
> 
> Anyway, this one goes out to all of Quinn's excellent agendas!! You asked specifically for Lesteon and I really hope this delivers! Of course, Lesteon aside, I happen to know other ships and things you like and, what, c'mon, did you just expect me to _not_ take those into account??? The focus is definitely still on Lesteon, but the rest of the plot spiraled out and clicked together too well to not include everything else too. Hope you don't mind ;P

The smell of gunpowder burns sharp against the brine of the sea and the undercurrent of ozone creeping through the air; the blasting of the cannons shakes the atmosphere far more than even the stormy, salty ocean winds ever could. The sound of shots being fired pulses in Lest’s bones.

He feels alive. Wild. _Free._

His first mate is walking the length of the ship towards the bow, eyes barely open despite the commotion even as she calls out orders in a calm but deadly clear voice. She has always seemed like her voice would be soft, perhaps too soft for this. And it _is_ soft, _she_ is soft, all things considered, but she also has a way of commanding attention when she wants to. A way of being impossible to ignore and easy to listen to. Lest couldn’t ask for anyone better to be standing at his right hand. Aside from perhaps the only person who refused him, but that was a losing battle from the start. Besides, she was right. The crew works better the way it is now, even if it still irks him to admit it.

Lest's first mate—the one his sister picked out for him—dodges past the master gunner, who is rushing down the gangway in the opposite direction, weaving his way aftward. He gets within shouting distance of the poop deck and yells up at the helmsman (also picked by Lest's sister, if you want to look at it that way, albeit in a much more direct manner). She is currently gritting her teeth as she tightens her grip on the wheel and does her best to course-correct in the face of their present predicament.

Said present predicament being the reason the sail master is swinging around the rigging of the mainmast like a madwoman despite the danger presented by the bad weather. Her braid is whipping in the wind and her flushed face is drenched by the spray of sea foam and the sheets of rain blanketing the entire watery horizon around the two ships—around their whole world, as far as this small slice of it is concerned. It’s a wonder she manages to keep that damn monocle on even now, but Lest knows if he asks she’ll just tell him “It’s a mystery!” and that he has to “figure it out himself” if he really wants to know. (He doesn’t, not really.)

Beneath the ropes she effortlessly dances between, the pilot stands with her feet planted firmly on the deck at the helm and her hair streaming behind her like twin banners in the wind. She calls her response down to the gunner, a challenge on her tongue, a smirk on her lips, and a glint in her eyes. The navigator, standing stalwart and calm beside her despite the weather and the battle, takes a step forward to set his hand on her shoulder and speak into her ear, though an ill-concealed smile is playing on his face beneath his glasses. Even so, despite the easy, pleasant look on his face, Lest knows he is calculating the cost of repairs and damages to both the crew themselves and to the _Lady,_ already, though the battle has only barely begun.

The gunner rolls eyes as grey and stormy as the sky above them, and the laugh he barks to the tune of her answer peals in succession with a rumble of thunder on the edges of the wind and a ripple of light that flashes across the helmsman’s face as her expression brightens in turn.

Lest doesn’t know much about his life, but he knows his sister, and he knows that look, and he knows the sort of trouble that is bound to come along with it.

That said, it’s going to have to wait for a later analysis. He doesn’t have the time or the focus to spare to properly address it, not in the middle of a firefight.

Not when the _Guardian_ has her sights set on Lest’s ship. Again.

And not when he’s this close to finally being rid of her and her captain—no, her whole crew—once and for all.

Lest is surrounded by a very capable crew of his own, all of whom have proven time and again to be loyal, true, and reliable in a pinch. Tactical enough to make intelligent, rational decisions, but creative and brave enough to have that edge of improvisation and intuition that can prove so crucially important in the heat of battle. Lest loves them all dearly; he would do anything for any of them.

Anything that doesn’t involve swearing off stupid, impulsive decisions, that is. Because unfortunately, there’s just something about the _Guardian_ and her ilk that makes Lest lose his mind. A _little_. Chalk it up to the dogged, days-long chases, the unprovoked hostilities, the refusal to even make a joke of an attempt at parley or any sort of real negotiations. Maybe it’s the way that allowing the ship itself to keep sailing on the same seas is a danger to Lest’s whole crew, his whole _family_ , not to mention his livelihood and home. Perhaps it’s just the way that absolute asshole of a so-called “captain” looked at Lest the last time when he—

Well, does it matter, though? For whichever reason, the very sight of those accursed sails is enough to loosen the frayed knots holding together the weathered edges of Lest’s self-control just enough to…

Well.

 _Just enough_ to allow something like this to happen.

Because one moment, Lest is taking stock, calling out orders to hold the sails steady, to fire at will, but only the chain shots, now that they’re close—there’s no sense in sinking a ship as fine as the _Guardian_ without first at the very least plundering her for all she’s worth—orders to do damage, to _win_ , but not to needlessly maim because _some_ pirates know the meaning of _waste not, want not_ …

One moment, Lest is watching the space between the sides of the _Lady Ventuswill_ and the _Guardian_ shrinking as the two ships close in next to each other with the watchful, cunning eyes of an experienced pirate captain at sea, in the thick and thrill of it all.

The next, the wind twists in a different direction, a misplaced, contrary gust which lasts for but a split second. A split second, just barely long enough that it carries with it the sounds of a certain smarmy voice saying… _something_. Lest will be damned afterwards if he had even registered whatever words lanced off that silver tongue. It wouldn’t particularly have made a difference, though.

Clearly, it really wouldn’t have.

Because, well, if it would have made a difference, he would have paused at the sound of Doug’s startled shout as Lest leapt down beside and barreled past him, or at Frey’s exasperated, _“Lest, don’t you dare!”_ as she caught sight of him running broadside, or at Arthur’s deceptively placid, _“Captain, be careful,”_ as he leapt onto the railing, or even at Illuminata’s excited, _“Give ‘em hell, boss!”_ from above as he grabbed one of the many ropes normally under her watchful care and without hesitation leapt and swung it out and over and across. He would have been able to feel the sting of the ocean spray on his face, of the wind and the rain and the sound of the fight being exchanged in the space he himself was crossing, to register the inherent danger of carelessly flinging oneself directly into the gaping maw of the beast explicitly in the process of stalking oneself as its chosen prey.

Apparently Lest never learned to leave well enough alone. (He has a sneaking suspicion this would not be as surprising to those who know him well as he would like for it to be.) Instead of doing any of those things, instead of taking any of the many, many chances he has to step down, cool off, let it go, be _smart_ about this, Lest finds himself rolling onto the deck of a ship completely foreign and unwelcoming to himself. He ducks and weaves between several poorly-placed sword swings, and one pistol shot far too wide. The enemy crew is obviously unprepared for his half-cocked arrival.

It’s hardly a struggle at all to dash and dodge his way through his enemies back toward his real target, back toward the upper decks. Cutlass tightly swinging in hand, boots pounding on the unfamiliar deck, heart pounding in his ears.

His tunnel vision is so overwhelming that the only thing strong enough to bring him back to reality a little is the ungodly clang of steel on steel mere inches from his face vibrating through his skull. He barely manages to avoid stumbling to his ass, and the time it takes to right himself is long enough to at least register the sorry fate he’d so narrowly avoided.

There is a vaguely familiar swordswoman before him, tall and pressed and put-together and looking entirely unlike what Lest’s accustomed to an ordinary pirate looking like. And she's wielding, of all things, a huge greatsword. Her high, neat blonde ponytail and gleaming, heavy, extremely unconventional but obviously well-tended longsword look so out of place amongst the backdrop of rigging and cannon fire that he almost has to laugh. At least, that is, until she is bringing her expertly-crafted weapon crashing toward his general well-being yet again, with a much more fittingly pirate-like battle cry escaping her lips.

Before he can get his face bashed in, Clorica is grabbing his hand and whirling him directly into another, much smaller, adversary of theirs, knocking them to the ground and away somewhere towards the ship’s railing.

Lest has no idea when his first mate followed him in his foolish, impulsive boarding of the _Guardian_ , nor does he quite know why she did—frankly, they don’t have a large enough crew to support their entire chain of command throwing themselves overboard at the mere whisper of a rival captain. If he wasn’t so used to her by now, he would be impressed she had even managed to escape her trance long enough to realize he’d boarded the rival ship at all, considering the state she’d seemed to be in when he’d done it, but he knows better than to believe that she truly doesn’t pay attention to every little thing that happens on the _Lady_ , whether or not she appears to be fully conscious. Perhaps he should be mad at her for abandoning her duties as irresponsibly and easily as he had his, but it’s kind of hard to yell at someone when they have just decidedly saved your sorry ass from stumbling drunkenly to death’s front door.

Not that he’s about to express that sentiment, either. Thanks for life-saving are generally useless if the breath they take would be better spent ensuring the effort wasn’t wasted.

The swordswoman—the more Lest looks at her, the more he’s sure he’s seen her before, almost certainly on one of his previous run-ins with this very crew—shouts in alarm and turns her focus toward the figure on the ground behind Lest and Clorica for a moment. Lest thinks she might also call out a word—a name, perhaps—but he doesn’t hear it clearly because Clorica takes the opening to roughly grab him by the shoulder, shoving him in the direction of the stairs to the _Guardian_ ’s poop deck.

Before she pulls away entirely, she leans in close, mouth nearly pressed to Lest’s ear as she tells him, “Do what you must; I’ll make sure you aren’t interrupted.”

Her eyes are usually half-lidded, but they’re a little too bright as she pulls back, winks, and takes up a fighting stance in between Lest and the tall swordswoman. He wants to talk back, but nothing good will come of him distracting the both of them by getting defensive.

And besides, she isn’t wrong. There _is_ something he has to do, after all. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

So he turns and takes the stairs two at a time, mindful not to slip in the small streams accumulating from the rain. He trusts Clorica to be able to hold her own and keep her word, so he puts her out of his mind for now, knowing he’ll need to focus. And as he crests the top step—

_Clang!_

He barely raises his arm in time to parry the blow, running purely off instinct. Almost without conscious thought, his body pivots and launches itself across the deck, diving into a roll before fluidly pushing back up into a standing position. And when he turns…

He finds himself face to face with _him_.

The infamous captain of the equally infamous pirate vessel, the _Guardian_. Said to be manned by an impossibly small crew, one that can’t be as successful as it is without some kind of explanation. One that must not be entirely human. Or so the rumors go, in any case.

And none is more commonly whispered about than the captain of that monstrous crew. Their leader. The ‘Sarcophagus Maker.’ The man who was employed as the first mate of the greatest pirate to ever live until things apparently broke bad between them.

 _‘Mutineer,’_ whisper the eaves of the seedy taverns in the less judgmental, more universally welcoming port cities, the ones that don't question what sort of operation you're running on your ship so long as you bring enough coin to pay your fare.

 _‘Saboteur,’_ chime the cobwebs.

 _‘Deserter,’_ groan the floorboards.

 _‘Traitor,’_ creak the docks.

_‘Leon.’_

Lest has heard plenty of colorful words thrown around to describe the man. And, sure, maybe that’s part of it. Lest isn’t proud of paying heed to mere rumors, but he can’t say with complete confidence that his perception hasn’t been influenced at least a little by the lilting accusations of rough drunken voices grating at the ears of all those who will listen to them.

So, yes, maybe Lest hasn’t discounted the rumors entirely. There has to be a _reason_ for the sheer multitude of them, at the very least.

But the rumors aren’t the reason Lest is here, slowly circling the Sarcophagus Maker himself on the highest deck of a ship actively trying to sink Lest’s own. Truthfully, Lest prefers to keep away from other pirate ships as much as he can. No sense in wasting resources or, in drastic situations, lives, over something so idiotic as earning the honorary title of being “the best” or “the most deadly" or anything like that. Lest looks out for his own crew above all else, and that includes personal vendettas or achievements.

_The thing is._

This guy isn’t just some rival pirate captain. Oh, no. And this isn’t a personal grudge in that it isn’t only between the _Guardian_ ’s captain and Lest himself. Lest knows well how very much this man wants to send not only Lest but also his entire crew to the depths of Davy Jones’ Locker. And that is something Lest just can’t stand for.

Don’t get him wrong, Lest knew very well what he was in for when he agreed to take over as the captain of this particular ship. Taking charge of the _Lady Ventuswill_ isn’t exactly the same as beginning a career in piracy from scratch. With the right amount of success and the right amount of luck, ships have histories longer than their individual captains, after all. And the _Lady_ has plenty of history that Lest himself was not around for.

Hell, even some history Lest wasn’t around for, but a certain someone else _was_.

Captain Leon clicks his tongue as he languidly straightens up, scimitar now held much more loosely in his grip than it must have been a moment ago to put as much force as he did behind the blow that Lest just parried. The two of them begin slowly circling each other, though neither of them makes any moves to attack right away. Rainwater drips down the steel of Leon's curved blade and off the brim of his unconventionally white tricorne, and though it seems as though the rivulets of falling water should be snatched up and dissipated by the wind as easily as the sea spray is, the air around the _Guardian_ ’s captain seems annoyingly still and heavy, as though reaffirming that the deck of his ship is a mere extension of himself.

Unlike the woman Clorica is facing off against on the deck below, this man truly looks the very picture of what Lest would expect to find sailing under the banner of the Jolly Roger. Everything from his deceptively relaxed posture to his distractingly unbuttoned poet shirt— _‘distractingly’_ by which of course Lest means that it leaves so much of his ~~(extremely toned, fuck)~~ chest and torso bare, even more so when you take into account the way the wet fabric clings semi-translucently to his skin, which is really all a huge tactical miscalculation while _in the middle of a damn firefight, does this guy have a death wish or what?!_

Anyway. If nothing else, the self-assured smirk on his face and the intentionally un-alert way he’s standing make him look a million times more suited to being here than most other people Lest has met, if he’s being honest. Which only goes to further prove how very dangerous Lest knows this man to be.

That smirks sharpens to a more intimidating point than the one at the end of his blade as he pauses his lazy circling to cock his head ever so slightly, running a discerning set of eyes over the entirety of Lest’s person.

“Sorry there, _Captain_ , but I was under the impression you flew over here to storm my ship because you had some sort of an interest in _fighting_. If you had something else in mind then please, by all means, go right ahead. I’m all ears,” Leon purrs, and it takes every ounce of self-control Lest barely still possesses to not fly off the handle then and there at the sound of his deep, infuriating voice.

It’s not that Lest isn’t well aware of how attractive the other captain is, as much as he would never admit it in so many words to anyone.

It’s more so that Lest is well aware of how aware _Leon_ is of what he has to offer, and Lest refuses to give him the satisfaction of doing anything that could be misconstrued as something resembling agreeing with the man.

So instead of letting the blatant antagonistic, insincere flirting get to him, Lest scoffs and levels his sword in Leon’s direction. Not without sarcasm, he snarks, “Oh, does that mean you’re finally willing to talk it over, then? Didn’t realize all I had to do to be granted parley with _the great Sarcophagus_ was board his ship directly. Would have done that ages ago if I'd known.”

At the mention of the nickname, there’s a flicker of malcontent that crackles its way across Leon’s face. It’s smoothed away as soon as it comes, replaced (perhaps not so effortlessly as it would seem at first glance) by that much more familiar smug grin. Despite how fleeting it is, Lest is positive he didn’t just imagine it.

So the guy isn’t some perfect, unrufflable marble statue. Good to know.

He’s pretty good at faking it, though. The corner of his mouth curls in a way that has Lest tightening his grip on his sword ever-so-slightly, especially when he takes a small step forward and chuckles, low and mirthless.

He inclines his head slightly, but his eyes never leave Lest’s face. “My deepest apologies, sir. Next time, perhaps I’ll send you a direct invitation, would that be better for you?”

Lest narrows his eyes, but before he can respond, there’s a glint of steel and the sound of the heel of Leon’s boot _thunk_ ing onto the same plank Lest’s standing on, and there isn’t anything Lest can allow himself to focus on that's not ducking out of the way of the blow. Leon is big—far taller and bulkier and almost certainly stronger than Lest—but the one way this works to Lest’s advantage is that he’s therefore considerably heavier than Lest. In a split second, Lest is taking in the sound of Leon’s boots sliding on the slick, wet wood of the deck and the way he bends his elbow and the way his eyes are almost watching the air around Lest rather than Lest himself, and in the next fraction of the same second, Lest is twirling out of the way of Leon’s feint and allowing the bigger man’s momentum to carry his sword arm past and away.

Leon’s reach is longer, both in terms of the length of his arms themselves and in the added length of his scimitar in comparison to Lest’s cutlass, but that just means Lest is going to have to take his advantage by getting up close and personal. Pivoting in the counter direction to Leon’s feint, he throws a jab that Leon only barely manages to deflect with the base of his sword.

Blades crossed between them, Lest is struck by a sudden moment of clarity. He had meant to get close, yes, but somehow he hadn’t accounted for the way he’d be looking up into Leon’s face, dark skin shadowed only further in the dull, stormy lighting, eyes—blue, are they blue? or green? they’re brighter than the storm and the sea around them—eyes flashing with an intensity and a focus that Lest had always suspected lurked somewhere beneath the surface but had yet to see full force. And in the face of it, the force is truly nearly as strong as the one applied to the blade braced against his own.

However, as all moments do, this passes, and suddenly they’ve both shoved away form each other and are now circling yet again, only closer and faster than they had been before.

Close enough that Lest can make out the way Leon's footwork is ever-so-slightly too pretty, too precise, too rote, to belong to someone who learned swordplay on the high seas. Close enough to see the runaway strands of pale hair that have escaped the loose braid running down Leon’s back, close enough to discern all the (currently matted) blues and greens that make up the large feather stuck in the side of the other captain’s hat. Close enough to make out the pearls of water dripping down Leon's cheek and into the quirk of his sneer.

Lest doesn’t think he’s quick to anger, necessarily. And he knows he isn’t quick to hate. But right now, in this moment, something boils over.

For the first time since he’s gotten up here, Lest swings into the offensive. It’s stupid and incredibly petty, but before he can think better of it, he slides forward in a near-perfect mirror of the feint Leon had pulled not a minute before. He’s not sure what he’d expected to come of it, not really, but knocking the smug look off his face for the second time in five minutes is a much bigger boon than he’d dared dream. And oh, how vindicating it feels to put this man in particular off-kilter, even if only for a moment, using his own move against him. Lest isn’t sure what his face looks like now, but he would be a fool to not realize that his excitement is almost certainly visible, especially this close up.

Of course, he doesn’t have much time to enjoy the small victory, because next thing he knows, Leon is just barely catching the edge of Lest’s sword with his bracer—which if Lest is being honest, he had assumed was more for decoration than for battle. It sure _looks_ like it shouldn’t be strong enough to withstand a blow like that, but the metal doesn’t dent in the slightest where Lest’s cutlass glances off of it.

Maybe that’s part of its purpose. It looks like it’s just another accessory, yet more jewelry to match the ostentatious appearance of the earrings sparkling beneath the hair that’s come loose to frame his face, and the thin golden chain of his necklace, swinging low on his practically bare chest, and the golden embellishments on his clothes. But in reality, it has practical applications, a hidden purpose. And maybe Lest is reading too far into it, but for a brief moment he feels as though he’s onto something important—

Until he’s forced to dodge his feet out of the way of some aggressive, tricky footwork of Leon’s, and whatever path his thoughts had been taking is quickly dismantled, as completely dissipated as the trailing wake of a ships on the open ocean the ten minutes after it's created.

And before Lest can get back into a tactically advantageous position, Leon is swinging the pommel of his scimitar back around directly toward Lest’s temple, and Lest barely manages to dive out of the way in time to put enough distance back between them. This time though, once he does, Leon doesn’t let up or leave any room for Lest to catch his breath. There is no circling this time, not like before. Leon swings a few more blows in Lest’s direction, none of them decisive but all of them corralling him towards the railing between their two ships.

Well, if that’s where he wants Lest to go, who is Lest to deny him?

Lest isn’t necessarily the best actor—in fact, if Frey has anything to say about it, he’s actually the ‘worst actor _ever_ ’ (her words)—but he tries to make it seem like he’s struggling to keep up with Leon’s advances as best as he can while he backs towards the edge of the deck.

At the last second, instead of bumping his hip against the rail and being fully trapped at Leon’s mercy, he turns and, moving much quicker than when he’d been pretending to be overwhelmed, leaps up to perch on the edge of the railing. Technically speaking, though this gives him the high ground, it also makes it much easier for Leon to dispose of him, if he so wished to simply push him over.

The thing is, Lest knows Leon wants to get rid of him, but if he wanted it done in as easy a way as that, neither of them would be standing where they are now. In fact, Lest probably would have been at the bottom of the sea ages ago.

Ergo. While it isn’t maybe his smartest move ever, it’s really not as stupid as it may seem. And that aside, Lest has excellent balance, and he’s a damn good swordsman. Maybe not as good as Frey, maybe not even as good as Leon, but more than good enough to hold his own. Or at least, to hold his own long enough to come up with a winning strategy outside the realm of simple swordsmanship.

As he dances along the railing, parrying lunges and pulling feints, he tries to take stock of what’s around, in the edges of his vision.

Leon pulls a face as Lest jumps over a swipe aimed at his feet, but this time it is a very obviously intentional one, not a moment of unhindered surprise. As Leon throws out a sloppy swipe clearly not intended to be anything more than something to keep them both busy, he coos, “My, my. I had heard that the _Lady_ ’s new captain was just a fledgling, but no one told me the little birdie had learned to walk the wire.”

Lest grits his teeth. It’s not as easy a feat as he’d like to admit for him to not rise to the bait, but he does manage to remind himself that he’s looking for something to even the odds, and Leon has rather willingly given him a great chance to do just that without having to be as wary of dividing his attention.

And that’s when he sees it.

Inching further down the rail as inconspicuously as he can, Lest scoffs. His breath comes out in a puff of steam—when had it gotten cold enough for that? No matter, the important thing is to keep Leon distracted, and to keep him advancing, so that Lest can continue to edge aftward.

To that end, he retorts, “Is that so? Did you ever consider that he might just need a good opportunity to spread his wings?”

(He will not groan at his own pun, he won’t. And when he’s telling this story at some seedy pub later, he will leave it out, and he will absolutely not allow Frey the satisfaction of knowing the sort of shitty banter he has engaged in on this fateful day. That is something he will be taking to his watery grave.)

Captain Leon laughs, and, actually, that’s almost just as bad as it would be if Frey were the one doing it. No matter. They’re almost there. Just a bit further…

“And I suppose,” Leon says, voice oozing antagonistic saccharine as he presses forward, slightly more forcefully than Lest would prefer for his plan, “now that you’ve flown the nest and left your entire crew and ship to fend for itself, you must be feeling free as a bird, right?”

Lest’s heel brushes up against his goal, and there just isn’t enough time to fully absorb anything Leon is saying, not really. That doesn’t mean that what gets through doesn’t sting, though. Even if Lest knows his crew can handle themselves, even if he knows they’ll understand why he had to do this, that doesn’t mean he necessarily _should_ have done it. He just wishes he weren’t hearing it from fucking _Captain Leon_ of all people.

But, there truly isn’t any time for that at present. So Lest settles for grinning wildly and announcing, “Well, I really think you ought to be more concerned with your own nest than mine.”

Then, instead of parrying Leon’s next strike, he flips around to the other side of some of the ropes tied to the railing which operate the mizzenmast and yanks on them as hard as he can to put them between himself and the oncoming scimitar. Leon’s blade doesn’t cut through all of it, but with the extra tension Lest’s putting on the ropes, a couple of them do give way. He’s only slightly too slow in releasing them once they do snap, but ropeburn is a problem for Later Lest.

Now Lest, on the other hand, uses the moment it takes for Leon to register what he’s done to flip down off the railing and make a break for the helm.

With only a very small portion of the rigging compromised, and for only one of the masts, Lest is smarter than to think that his little ploy is anything more than a slight inconvenience for the _Guardian_. That said, any inconvenience is better than convenience for them, and Lest may not be a pilot of the same caliber as Frey, but he’s learned a thing or two from spending so much time listening to her complain.

Someone hadn’t properly tied off one of the lines to one of the _Lady_ ’s sails not too long ago, and Frey had nearly taken their head off when the ship had caught the wind at just the wrong angle to throw them completely off-balance as well as off-course. They hadn't capsized or anything, but with how pissed off Frey had been, it was almost hard to tell. Maybe, if Lest can just catch the angle of these stormy blusters the right way, he could cause that same situation, just on a much wider scale—

Perhaps, that is, if it weren’t for the fact that apparently Captain Leon is a bit quicker than Lest had anticipated.

Before Lest can properly get a hold of the wheel to steer the _Guardian_ off-course, he finds himself strangely breathless as he is knocked off his feet, shoved directly into his own goal. He ungracefully slams face first into the spokes of the wheel and barely manages to stumble his weight onto his feet as he tries to reach equilibrium again.

Instinctively, Lest spins around as best he can and strikes out with his cutlass, but apparently that rope had affected him more than he’d anticipated, because Leon is easily able to knock his sword directly out of his weakened grip. To add insult to injury, the blow is strong enough to topple Lest’s precarious balance and send him slipping and losing his footing completely.

Which leaves Lest here: his back uncomfortably pressed against the helm of an unfamiliar ship, his hat knocked unceremoniously from his head—likely when he was first pushed down—leaving his bangs to be instantly flattened directly into his eyes as his face is drenched by the rain now pouring directly onto it, his own sword flung somewhere halfway across the deck… and most immediately concerning (and most _insultingly_ ), the tip of Leon’s sword pointed directly at his jugular.

Lest does take a little satisfaction in the fact that Leon seems to be breathing as heavily as he is, but it’s really not much in the face of such a decisive loss.

Because Leon may be breathing a little harder than usual, but he’s still got that infuriating smirk on his face, now punctuated by the fact that he’s literally standing victorious over Lest, who has of course managed to trap himself up against the only structure that could possibly even block him like this on this part of the ship.

Leon drags the curved edge of his scimitar slowly up to press lightly into the underside of Lest’s jaw, forcing him to look up. What a bastard. The rain that hits Lest’s face directly is still diverted from Leon’s by that stupid white tricorne hat, and those same rivulets Lest had noted running down Leon’s blade earlier are now directly falling onto Lest’s collarbones and dripping down his already more than drenched shirt. It’s hard to tell if Lest’s shivering because he’s so damn _mad_ at himself, or if it’s the feeling of the cold chill of the storm and his defeat catching up to him.

Either way, Lest can tell his rage must be burning clearly in his expression based solely on the aggravating laugh Leon lets loose at the sight of it.

And, well, maybe it was a little hypocritical of Lest earlier to say Leon might have been the one with a death wish based solely on the impractical undone-ness of his clothing. Because it may very well be Lest who has the death wish, considering how he boarded an enemy ship on a whim without letting anyone know ahead of time, and he even let Clorica get herself mixed up in this for him, and, well, there’s also what he’s about to do.

Leon opens that obnoxious mouth of his, presumably to gloat, but he only gets as far as, “Now, what was that about—” before several things happen in quick succession.

Thing one: Lest swiftly and without warning swings one foot up and around to shove Leon’s sword arm away—this is the moment Lest is forced to reckon with his own death wish adjacent tendencies.

Thing two: Lest spins—which of course leaves his back now completely open for Leon to take his best shot as soon as he regains his balance, which based on everything Lest has seen will be extraordinarily quickly—and yanks the wheel as hard as he can to the side, steering away from the _Lady_ and further into the headwind.

Thing three: the mizzenmast creaks as it strains against the unbalanced force of the remaining ropes holding it in place, an expected and welcome sound.

Thing four: there is a tremendously loud _Crack!_ which is a far less expected and less welcome sound. For a moment, Lest thinks he has miscalculated and is bringing the entire mast down on top of them (still a better way to die than at the mercy of Leon’s blade). The problem with that theory is…

Thing five—or, technically speaking, perhaps this should have been the real thing four: every hair on Lest’s head stands up straight and he is so suddenly blinded by a flash of lightning that he doesn’t realize that’s what’s happened until seconds after the fact. It feels so close he can practically smell the current in the air, and his ears are left ringing by the force of the overwhelming sound of the thunder, which makes much more sense in context.

He’s certain that the lighting must have struck somewhere on the ship itself, it had just sounded so damn _close_. Closer than Lest has ever been to it before, that’s for sure. And, well. Again, losing to Mother Nature seems in this moment to be a much more appealing way to go than Lest’s previous situation had been.

Although, speaking of said situation…

Lest manages to peel his eyes open, somehow, meaning of course that he hasn’t died (yet). In fact, he’s still clinging very alive-ly to the wheel and the helm, and it takes him a moment to loosen his shaky, tense grip enough to stand the rest of the way up. When he does, he finds he was right, to an extent.

Blinking through the haze of bleary eyes, it looks as though the lightning managed to strike the very rear of the ship—possibly bad news for the rudder, though Lest can’t see the extent of the damages from here. What he can see is the way the wood at the very aft of the _Guardian_ , logically what probably constitutes the outer roof of the captain’s quarters, has been set ablaze. The rain seems to already be helping to keep it from spreading too immediately. In fact, it’s probably thanks to the rain in the first place that the wood was too damp for the fire to start out larger than it is.

More importantly, however, the dauntless captain of the _Guardian_ himself seems to have been thrown to the floor, either by the force of the lightning itself (unlikely, considering Lest was practically right next to him and hadn’t felt the same effect) or by some combination of the noise and the light and the slick wood of the deck.

Or perhaps he fell when Lest kicked him? Or when he spun the wheel? Or perhaps the lightning did do something to the rudder, after all? Lest can’t say he could make out what all exactly happened in that moment, but he would not be surprised to find out all that lurching wasn’t just in his head and stomach but was in fact something the ship itself had been doing beneath his feet.

Whatever the case had been, Captain Leon of the _Guardian_ is currently groaning in pain at Lest’s feet, in a complete reversal of the positions they’d been in mere moments ago. Not that Lest has a weapon on him to take advantage of the moment with. Or, well. He does still have his pistol on him, but shooting a man in the back, while he’s already down, is…

“ _Captain!!_ ”

The voice comes from behind Lest, at the top of the stairs he himself had scaled to get up here. It’s so familiar that he almost neglects to pay it any attention at first, too distracted by the light of the fire reflecting off the water and the prone man before him. As soon as he realizes why it sounds so familiar, however, he instantly whirls around to locate the source.

“Cl-Clorica? Thank— _Shit, watch out, behind you!_ ”

Lest’s relief colors instantly to panic as he catches sight of a figure approaching from behind Clorica’s back. If he had anything in his hands, he might have thrown it on impulse. As it is, he stumbles out from behind the helm, hoping there might be some way, somehow, that he could get there in time—

“Hm?” Clorica turns, much too slowly, nowhere near quickly enough to save herself, and… doesn’t even startle a little when she sees her apparent stalker.

“ _Cloric—_ ”

“Oh,” she says, far too calm, turning back around and leaving herself fully defenseless against this person, “it’s fine. She’s just worried about Captain Leon.”

Lest kind of wants to scream for fear of having been thrown by lightning into some sort of strange alternate universe, but by some strange act of insanity, the stranger who comes up behind Clorica doesn’t stab her in the back or throw her to the floor. It’s a woman with long pink hair, separated into pigtails not unlike those that Frey likes to wear her hair in, if curlier in texture than Frey’s. She has a severe look on her face, but Lest supposes that could be on account of the sight of her captain laying on the floor and her ship actively burning behind him.

She takes everything in with an air of disdain, and then she says, “Oh. So you two didn’t kill each other, then?”

Clorica stifles a giggle, looking way more pleased than she has any right to while she’s bleeding rather profusely from a cut Lest is just now noticing on her forehead. “I knew they wouldn’t.”

Lest blinks at them, mystified. When no explanation presents itself he says, “I’m sorry, what is—”

“If I were you,” the mystery woman cuts in, “I’d be more concerned about _that_.”

Now that he gets a chance to study her face rather than worry about what sort of deadly weapons she might be bringing down on the back of Clorica’s head, Lest recognizes her as someone who was with Leon the last time they ran into each other. Something must have happened to that distinctive hat she normally wears. Lest very nearly didn’t recognize her without it.

With that context out of the way, Lest finally catches up to the way Pigtails had been pointing to the port side of the _Guardian_ , in the direction of the _Lady Ventuswill_ , which, thanks to Lest’s own intervention in the course the _Guardian_ is setting, is growing steadily further away.

Pigtails herself has moved on, passing by Lest and making for Leon directly. When she makes no move to retrieve either Lest or Leon’s discarded swords, nor the weapon at her own belt, he chances looking away from her to exchange a glance with Clorica. She’s not looking at him, however, instead pressing a fist to her mouth as she looks across to their ship.

Lest loves her to death, but he knows better than anyone that sometimes she isn’t necessarily the best at making a quick, decisive decision. He glances back over his shoulder one last time. Pigtails has sat her captain up, but she also appears to be… berating him? He sees her very clearly smack Leon on the shoulder, but he doesn’t particularly care what that’s all about. All that matters is that the both of them are otherwise occupied.

Lest dashes forward to grab Clorica by the elbow. “We’ve got to move, _now_ , or we’ll never make it back—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, because another furious bolt of lightning paints the sky, and the sound of its thunder tears away any meaning from the rest of Lest’s sentence. He’d known it was storming, but he hadn’t had any idea they’d have a full-blown typhoon on their hands by the end of this battle. How long ago had the cannons stopped firing? Lest hadn’t noticed, but he hopes his crew is busy battening the hatches instead of loading cannonballs.

This second strike of lightning doesn’t hit either ship, but it does tear through the space directly between the two, almost like it specifically wants to taunt Lest and Clorica and their position stuck aboard this enemy ship.

Speaking of which…

“Did anyone else follow us over here?”

Clorica doesn’t respond immediately, and Lest is just about to repeat his question at a higher, possibly more post-thunderously audible volume, when she finally shakes her head.

“I told them all to stay put. No one followed me.”

“So it’s just us…” Lest mumbles, not talking to Clorica in particular but also not attempting to muffle his voice. Considering that her ears are probably feeling just as abused as his are right now, it might not matter either way, though.

There’s a pause as Lest takes in the distance between the ships, trying to figure out if there’s any way they could grapple their way across without risking getting fried to a crisp by more of that lightning coming down on their heads.

“Captain…” Clorica frowns at him, the way she does when she doesn’t particularly want to be the bearer of bad news but would also rather shoulder the responsibility herself than foist it off on anyone else. “I think… Maybe, it might be best if we…”

“ _LEST!_ ”

That’s Frey’s voice, albeit extremely strained and sounding further away than it probably actually is. Still, Lest would recognize her calling his name even… Well, even in a storm as bad as this one.

He rushes to the edge of the railing, the same one he had been standing on not so long ago, with Clorica in tow, and desperately tries to make out the shape of Frey standing at the helm of the _Lady_ through the sheets of rain separating them.

At the top of his lungs, as loud as he possibly can, he yells back, “ _FREY!_ ”

He waves an arm at her, and it’s hard to tell, but he thinks she might shift her stance slightly at the sound of his voice. Now that she knows where he is, she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts at him, more audibly than before but still very much mangled by the rain and the wind.

“YOU ABSOLUTE MORON!!”

“Wh— _EXCUSE ME?!_ ”

“I SAID,” she yells, somehow even louder than before, “YOU ARE A _MORON!!_ ”

“THAT’S…” He drops his hands and sighs. At a conversational volume that only Clorica can hear, he admits, “...Okay, fair.”

“YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT! SO SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME—YOU HAVE TO _STAY PUT_ , OKAY?”

Lest must be hearing things. It’s probably on account of being so close to the deafening sound of so much thunder, of course he wouldn’t be hearing things properly after that. Because to his injured eardrums, it had really sounded for a second there like his dear twin sister was telling him to stay aboard a ship that actively wants him dead and twiddle his thumbs for the rest of his life (which won’t be very long) instead of finding his way back to her and to their ship—their home.

He’s about to ask her to repeat herself when she goes ahead and does it unprompted.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING, BUT PLEASE JUST—”

She’s cut off for a second by another gust of wind, by the slap of the growing churning of the waves smacking into the side of the ship.

“—STORM IS TOO DANGEROUS! AND WE HAVE TWO OF THEIRS, SO THEY’LL NEED—”

_‘Two of theirs’? What is that supposed to mean? And since when?_

“—SEE YOU AGAIN, OKAY! SOON! I PROMISE!”

Lest is struck silent for another second before he yells back, “WAIT, FREY, WHAT ARE YOU—”

“JUS— DON’T DO ANYTHING _STUPID_ , OKAY? ST— SAFE!!”

“ _FREY!!_ ”

Lest doesn’t realize he’s begun climbing onto the railing until he feels Clorica’s gentle but firm grip pulling him back down.

“I’m sorry, Lest. But she’s right; there’s no way we could make it back to the _Lady_ , even if we wanted to.”

“But, I can’t just—”

“Captain, please…”

“Clorica, let me _go_. I have to—”

She sighs, but if anything tightens her grip instead of loosening it. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“What?!”

Lest turns and for the first time since he’d heard Frey tears his eyes away from the fading silhouette of his ship to look Clorica directly in the eyes. Straining against her in this state is a losing battle, but he _can’t_ just stand here and let this happen. He can’t. After everything he and Frey have been through, he can’t just accept being separated like this, for such a stupid mistake of his. He hardens his expression and his voice and prepares to abuse his power in a way he generally hates to.

“Clorica, let me go. That’s an order.”

She doesn’t respond right away. She’s frowning again.

“Lest…”

“ _Captain._ This is a direct order from your _captain_ , Clorica.”

She sounds pained when she responds. “...Captain. Do you know who takes control of the ship in your absence?”

“What?” Lest all but gasps, abruptly feeling very hollow.

“...Normally the first mate would be the second in command, but if she too were absent…”

“No, that’s… Clorica, what are you—”

“And ordinarily, the boatswain would be third in the chain of command, but Mr. Volkanon has already deferred his authority to you, Frey, and Arthur.”

“Cl...Clorica…”

“I’m sorry, Lest.”

“But, no, that’s not—” Even if neither of them are on the ship right now, that doesn’t mean all of that is meaningless. They still belong to the same crew, they… “I’m still your captain, I—”

“I know, Lest.” She’s determined. There’s nothing that could stop her from doing what she thinks is right when she gets like this. Lest knows that well, it’s one of the things he likes best about her. Except when she’s using it against him, saying stuff like, “But I still can’t let you go.”

“But—”

“It’s okay. We’ll be just fine.”

She looks so sure. She believes what she’s telling him. Lest wishes he could share her optimism. He’s supposed to be the captain, isn’t he? He should be leading her.

He just…

Lest stops struggling in Clorica’s hold and instead slumps into her side. The _Lady_ is long gone, anyway. They wrap an arm around each other, and he tries not to think about how it’s his fault she got stuck in this situation as well. He can take responsibility for his own stupid actions just fine, but she doesn’t deserve to suffer for it, too.

When he chances a glance over his shoulder, he finds that there’s someone new at the helm. Or, no, not new, but rather the same smaller sailor Clorica had used Lest as a battering ram against earlier. He’s standing just fine, and he seems alert, with a serious look on his face, so he must not have been very injured by that stunt before. The way he’s holding the wheel reminds Lest painfully of Frey. He can only pray that this guy is as good a pilot as she is.

On the other side of the deck, Pink Pigtails is standing at the edge of the poop deck, yelling orders down at the crew running around the deck below. For a disconcerting, heart-stopping moment, Lest is unable to figure out where Leon went.

Before he can properly freak out about it, he finally spots a flash of pale hair under a white hat. Leon has taken off his outermost layer—and Lest can’t help but wonder what this guy's fascination with being half-dressed at most is all about.

That is, until he realizes Leon is using said layer, his leather coat, to smother the flames that haven’t been put out by the rain already. Fine. Lest can forgive it just this once, then.

Once he’s finished with that, Leon hops back down off the stern and walks over to join the shorter man at the helm. They exchange some sort of greeting or perhaps an update, but Lest doesn’t quite catch it and doesn’t quite care to know what they’re talking about, because as soon as Leon lifts his head again, he looks directly past the pilot to meet Lest’s gaze with his own.

Lest shivers, and it’s for sure not because of the cold this time. He hopes Clorica can’t feel his unease. Even if they manage not to be executed by Leon on principle, they’re still going to have to survive the typhoon as well as somehow convince this crew to go out of their way to find the _Lady_ after the storm has passed and let both himself and Clorica go, so they can…

What? Go right back to waging war against each other? There’s no chance in hell this is going to end well.

Captain Leon and his pilot continue their discussion, but Leon’s eyes never leave Lest’s face. Even when the two of them seem to come to a decision and set their best course to escape the storm. The cloudy skies and turbulent sea have absolutely nothing on the dangerous glint of malice in that man’s eyes.

How the hell could Lest have let this happen?

Just what is he supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned my lesson about promising to keep any kind of regular update schedule (lol), but this is all very much planned out, and if the method of walking myself off the plank and directly into the deep end pans out the way i'm hoping it will, i'll hopefully get this all written out soon. In the meantime, I know the _relationship_ ship isn't actually sailing very much yet, but I hope this is enough to tide you over for now, Quinn!!!


	2. Look Alive

What the hell does Leon expect the crew to do in this situation?

It’s bad enough that his stupid vendetta and paranoia have caused the _Guardian_ ’s whole crew to get dragged into the middle of a truly unnecessary feud with the _Lady Ventuswill_ —and after _everything_ that’s already happened to them concerning that particular ship, to boot. But Dolce has to draw the line somewhere, and getting caught out at sea in the middle of a freaking _typhoon_ of all things is what she would normally consider a pretty good line to draw.

And, of course, that’s not even mentioning the fact that both Amber and Dylas are _gone_. Nor the considerable danger they are in.

Now, Dolce knows as well as the rest of them that the _Lady_ is an extremely well-constructed vessel. It’s not that the other ship is incapable of weathering the storm, or anything. Dolce is moreso worried about the fact that Amber and Dylas are stranded in what is essentially enemy territory.

…If the ‘territory’ were floating in the middle of an ocean, and there was no viable way to safely escape. Not only that, but this is enemy territory—well, an enemy ship—which has somewhat recently come under command of a new, far less experienced captain than she’s had in the past. A captain who is in fact _not onboard that ship at all,_ at the moment.

So no, Dolce isn’t worried that the _ship_ is the thing that’s going to get Amber and Dylas killed for pulling such an unspeakably moronic stunt earlier.

(And, oh, does she have some _words_ for the both of them. PLENTY of words, believe her. Unfortunately, words alone are pointless when the fools she needs to tell them to aren’t around, so she’ll just have to wait. On the bright side, that means she has lots of time to ruminate on just how stupid it truly was and to think up even more words to have for them on the subject before they return.)

Ahem. Where was she?

Yes, of course: Dolce isn’t worried the ship is going to sink, or anything. Not _that_ ship. She is, however, worried that the crew sailing the ship might be the thing that’s going to do her friends in.

That said, Dolce isn’t quite going to go to _Leon_ levels of concern (and obsession) over it. She’s not lacking that much self-respect, thank you very much.

And, honestly, no matter what he says, the _Lady_ has managed to not get taken down altogether by Leon’s idiotic quest, so there’s no way they’re completely incompetent. Hell, even ignoring that track record, there’s no way Venti would ever leave her ship in the hands of an incompetent crew anyway, and there’s no way anyone would last onboard the _Lady_ if they didn’t have something to offer, if they weren’t willing to work for it. So she has no doubt the ship will make it through the storm just fine.

Ordinary, upstanding people may have their ideas about plank walking, but Dolce knows better all the ways the life of a pirate is actually hard work. The public may think as it will about their profession, but it’s not all plundering and rum. Actually, at least in Dolce’s experience, it is very rarely either.

She glances over her shoulder briefly and catches Leon flashing a smirk at Kiel where the two of them are huddled at the helm. It’s quite a familiar expression, really, one that most people seeing for the first time might imagine seems haughty or full-of-it.

And those people would be absolutely right, of course. But what they might miss is the tension that Dolce can clearly see lining Leon’s posture and staining the depths of his irises. Then again, the people usually at the mercy of such a put-upon look are usually also at the mercy of the feeling found at the bottom of a bottle of the kind of shitty rum sold only in establishments willing to open their doors to patrons of a… _certain_ variety, and it can hardly be expected of anyone under such conditions to be able to pick out any sort of nuance lingering beneath the surface. Especially if Leon is the one pouring…

...And, well. Hm. A quick correction: that is, in Dolce’s experience, the life of a pirate is very rarely _plundering_. Best not to think about the rum right now. There are certainly plenty more important things to focus on.

As Dolce turns back towards the fore of the ship, Kiel says something to Leon from behind her. Dolce can’t quite catch the words themselves over the wind and her own yelling of directions down at the crew, but she _can_ hear the way Leon chuckles and shoots back something that’s no doubt incredibly irritating and absolutely irrelevant and obviously unhelpful in response.

Normally, Dolce is completely content to just let something like that slide, considering that drawing attention to it will almost always doubtlessly be more trouble than it’s really worth.

However.

_Normally_ , the _Guardian_ is not in the midst of waves that are steadily growing to something like 30 feet in height, directly on the heels of a battle which involved exchanging canonfire, no less. _NORMALLY_ , Leon is not actively ignoring the breach of the ship’s security that he absolutely, 100% brought down upon himself, which also, _aggravatingly_ , brought said largely unknown threat into direct contact with the rest of the crew as well.

So it is only with a small sense of pleasure and vindication that Dolce barks off one last order down to the crew—to which Xiao Pai calls something like, _“Aye, aye, yes!”_ back up at Dolce from where she’s wrestling with some ropes, an action which is only minorly concerning—and then Dolce’s turning on her boot heel and stomping heavily over to the helm.

“ _A-hem._ ”

Kiel’s head pops up first. Leon, for his part, seems plenty content to not make any sort of direct eye contact with Dolce. He always has been smart, she’ll give him that much, however begrudgingly she must.

“Oh! Hey, Dolce!” Kiel chirps over the wind and the sea spray.

He sounds for all the world as though the weather isn’t anything out of the ordinary. Which is a mite disconcerting, perhaps, while his hands are occupied with wrestling the wheel into turning the direction he wants it to, presumably with the intention of steering the ship out of the storm and into some calmer waters. And by ‘presumably,’ Dolce means _‘he better fucking be.’_ The captain might be perhaps the single most stubborn and headstrong person Dolce knows, but even then, sometimes Dolce finds the sources of her migraines coming from places that are somehow even harder to deal with. Perhaps because those places are generally being more genuine about their headache-inducing behavior.

Though Leon still does not look up, Dolce knows he’s paying far more attention than he’s letting on. She looks straight through the air directly in front of his face, at the two interlopers who boarded the ship some mere minutes ago. All things considered, it is very slightly impressive that he doesn’t break under the force of her glare.

“So,” she says, not taking her eyes off the newcomers, even though the person she’s really watching is Leon, “What’s the plan here, boys?”

“Well, since we’re already out on the open ocean, we don’t have to decide whether or not we’re heading for cover near land, so there’s no worries about being caught too close to shore, at least. The only real options we have are to try to steer out of the direct path of the storm, or to steer into it and hope we can luck our way into finding the eye. That is, if this storm does actually have one, of course!” laughs Kiel, much more calmly than someone who hasn’t really weathered many large-scale sea storms before has any right to be. Much more excited, too.

Dolce does shift her gaze then, just so that she can raise a brow at him.

He honest-to-goodness chuckles at her, and not particularly nervously, either. Forte might not understand why he and Leon get along so well, but Dolce doesn’t particularly have trouble understanding it, all things considered.

“Obviously, we’re going to do the first thing,” Kiel continues, still smiling even as he squints his eyes to protect them from the rain pelting his face.

“Obviously,” Dolce echoes flatly.

It’s not the first time Dolce has questioned just how ‘obvious’ one of his ‘obvious’ explanations has been, and it probably won’t be the last either, considering that he is in spite of himself a very skilled pilot. The most skilled steerer they have, really. Dolce has no concerns that he won’t be able to do what he says he’s going to. Her concerns usually come more when he hasn’t yet told her exactly what that is.

Kiel laughs again, though the sound is cut short by the splash of a smaller wave slapping the side of the ship and dousing them all in salty spray. Kiel stumbles for a moment before bracing himself against the wheel again.

Not seeming particularly bothered, he continues, “I was just joking about the eye of the storm thing, of course. We’d get torn apart by the high winds at the heart of the storm way before we found any calm water”

“Right,” Dolce says, not certain she’s fully convinced of the complete truth of the whole ‘just joking’ statement.

It’s only then that she realizes that Leon _still_ has not said a damn word since she walked over. No quips, no jokes, no uncalled-for remarks, not even any directions for her to follow. She can never get the man to shut up, so it figures that he would decide the time to start is just when she wants more than anything to hear him try to justify himself. Instead, he’s simply staring over at the two newcomers by the rail.

Kiel, finally putting on a more serious expression, says, “The thing I’m most worried about is that I’m pretty sure we’re in the direct path of the dangerous semicircle… Or at least, we are if I’m getting my wind angles right here.”

Well. If he’s right about that, it’s very bad news for all of them. Getting caught out in the strongest winds around the advancing right edge of a storm is a surefire way to get sunk, even with a crew as experienced and capable as the _Guardian_ ’s.

Frowning, Kiel adds, “It would probably help if we had Amber around to double-check since she’s the best at that kind of thing, but— Uhh…”

Kiel jumps a little as Leon’s hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns his eyes on Dolce in panic. She purses her lips, feeling mostly that she would prefer it if he kept his eyes on the sea while he’s steering.

Kiel starts, “Leon—”

“If she were here, I’m sure we wouldn’t be able to get her to come down out of the rigging anyway,” Leon interrupts with a smirk he very obviously isn’t feeling, “so what is this if not just another Tuesday?”

Dolce scrunches her nose at him but ultimately decides not to comment.

“Isn’t it Wednesday, though?” Kiel wonders.

Undeterred, Leon continues, “Regardless, I’m more than confident that Kiel’s judgments are correct. Aren’t you, o ye of such little faith?”

Dolce frowns at him. She doesn’t disagree, but that’s more or less what she’s afraid of, at the moment.

“If you think so, perhaps you ought to stop standing around distracting him and go pitch in with the rest of the crew. We’ll need to pick up a lot of speed if we’re going to outrun the semicircle, and _someone_ just fucked up our mizzenmast,” she says pointedly.

“Yes,” Leon agrees darkly, eyes flicking to the port side of the ship, “I suppose someone did.”

Dolce rolls her eyes. She should have seen that one coming.

“I wasn’t talking about _him_ , nitwit,” she says, and then she snatches Leon’s hat off his head and puts it on her own. It doesn’t do much to shield her from the rain, but it’s better than nothing.

Leon has the audacity to look offended, though Dolce can’t be sure if it’s about the placement of well-deserved blame on his broad shoulders or the theft of his precious custom white tricorne.

Kiel pipes up, “Speaking of him, actually, what are we going to do about those two, anyway?”

Dolce hums, turning on Leon. “Yes, what _is_ the plan for them, fearless leader?”

Leon chuckles bitterly. “Only the best accommodations for such high-profile _guests_ , of course. As gracious hosts, we’ll even let them have their own room, don’t you think? It’s about time the brig finally saw some use.”

Kiel flicks his eyes to the side to quickly take in the sight of the two ‘guests,’ as Leon described them. He looks more thoughtful than anything else, though. As he’s turning his gaze back to the rolling waves of the sea around them, he catches sight of Dolce watching him and shoots her an inquisitive look from where Leon can’t see it.

Dolce sighs and looks out down the length of the ship. It’s a miracle the lightning that struck the aft deck hadn’t torn down one of their masts instead. It seems as though Kiel isn’t having any trouble steering, though, or at least not any more than a storm of this caliber would naturally call for on its own, so that’s a relief as well. They’ll still need to check if the rudder needs any repairs, but hopefully they can do that once they’re safely anchored somewhere where they’re not being gunned down by Mother Nature herself.

Even with the surprisingly minimal damages caused by the lightning, however, the effects of their little vanity dogfight earlier mean that the crew is running around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to secure all the canons while at the same time rearranging the sails into a more storm-appropriate formation (which they really ought to have finished doing a while ago, but, of course, on a ship run by Leon, the vanity dogfight always comes first).

Dolce isn’t an overly optimistic person. She’d be inclined to say she’s more of the opposite, really. Either way, she likes to think that she has a rational head on her shoulders, at the very least.

And that is why, when Leon sneeringly instructs, “Dolce, why don’t you escort our guests to their new quarters to keep them out of the way while we all clean house up here, hm?”

…Dolce says, “No.”

Leon blinks, seeming more thrown off than if she’d physically assaulted him. “Come again?”

Dolce huffs, “Leon, I understand that _rumors_ can have an undue effect on someone’s perception, but I hope you of all people realize that this crew is, as they say, incredibly small, but it is not, as they say, composed of superhuman monsters with endless stamina. In fact, we are down two very important members, and we don’t have the manpower to spare for me to waste my time on frivolous displays of your ego.”

Leon is stunned for a few moments of blessed silence. Dolce would be lying if she said it wasn’t a little fun to finally catch Leon so distracted about something that she’s able to actually surprise him for once.

He finally manages to pick his jaw up off the floor and leans further over Kiel’s shoulders to loom more into Dolce’s personal space. The rain plasters his now-unprotected hair to his forehead and washes down the planes of his face in rivulets, and thunder booms again somewhere in the middle distance.

All in all, he is _incredibly imposing_. Truly. The model of shock and awe. Aaaaaah. Scary.

He wishes, anyway. Even Kiel’s frown is more curiously thoughtful than worried. If anything, he looks somewhat happy that Leon has increased the pressure on his shoulders as he leans further over him. Kiel’s legs relax somewhat while he uses Leon’s weight to brace himself against the rolling of the deck.

In a _terrifyingly_ imposing tone (terrifying, truly), Leon finally manages, “I am your _captain_ , Dolce. If you took issue with following my orders, you should have spoken up back when you agreed to support me as such.”

“Ah, my deepest apologies,” Dolce replies dully. “I don’t have time to waste on your ego, _Captain_ , sir.”

Kiel stifles a laugh that surely Leon can feel through the hand on his back. Leon pouts in a way he’d probably take more care not to were there more people around to witness it.

“Captain,” she continues, less mockingly but no less firm, “I’m not asking you to trust that they’re good people, I’m asking you to trust that they’re good sailors. You can do whatever you want with them when we get to safer waters, but for now we need to focus on outstripping the storm as best we can.”

“You _know_ why we can’t trust—”

“If they wanted to continue attacking, they’d have done it by now,” Dolce interrupts before he can get himself started. “They know better than anyone what sort of position they’re in. Besides, we could use the extra hands.”

“The ext— Wait, _what?_ ”

_Finally_ , Leon drops the stupid pretences that he knows full well won’t work on Dolce, giving her a wholly honest and truthful expression of shock.

He also drops his hand from where it’s been resting on Kiel’s back, and the poor boy yelps as he’s nearly sent crashing to the deck by the sudden loss of stabilizing pressure. Dolce grabs his arm to steady him before he falls. It’s kind of important that their pilot doesn’t get injured or go overboard right now.

Leon’s surprise quickly fades into the same sort of burning intensity he always reserves solely for the new captain of the _Lady_. It would be funny if it didn’t actively cause Dolce so much personal strife.

“You want to let _them_ put their hands on _my_ ship?” scoffs Leon.

Dolce laughs once, loudly but lowly, and then she presents Leon with her very best empty smile. Maybe people generally think of Dylas when they think of unsettling forced smiles, but Dolce knows she has her own down pretty well.

“No. I’m going to _make_ them put their hands to work on _our_ ship.”

As she walks off to do just that, Leon plucks his hat back off her head. She knows it’s his petty way of getting in the last word.

He knows she’s right, though, so he doesn’t stop her.

Dolce’s in a hurry, but not so much of one that she doesn’t have time to scoop up some of the debris leftover from the battle that’s dangerously littering the floor of her ship. When she’s about halfway across the deck from the helm, she calls out, “You two!”

(She’s seriously going to lose her voice with all the yelling she’s having to do today, ugh. What she wouldn’t give for a tea break right about now.)

Two pairs of eyes turn their attention on Dolce in tandem. She flashes them the same dead-eyed grin she’d given Leon and enjoys the way the man tenses up in her presence.

She takes even more pleasure out of the face he makes when she unceremoniously tosses him the thing she’d picked up off the deck. He manages to catch his own sword, just barely, but then he stares at it as though it’s a bomb set to go off in his hand.

It’s of no consequence to Dolce whether or not he has it, honestly. If it were to come to a real fight, she’s one of the quickest, most accurate guns on the sea, and her pistols are still fully loaded. Leon might have his reasons (however ridiculous they may be) for never drawing firearms on this man, but Dolce has no such reservations, should it come to that. Though, she has more than a sneaking suspicion that it never will.

The man takes up a defensive stance in front of the woman with his sword raised, as though that will be the thing to protect either of them from Dolce. The woman shoots a small frown at the back of his head but otherwise does not protest. Dolce stares them both down for a moment before she raises her voice again.

“Look alive, sailors,” she bellows, ignoring the ‘threat’ of the raised sword entirely, “I have a job that needs doing, and you two are going to take care of it for me.”

* * *

Dolce sets down both the logbook and her quill with a tired sigh, relieved to finally be finished. She rubs her temples and tries not to think too hard about how briefly satisfying it would be to shoot off one of Leon’s toes where his boots are propped up on the other end of the table, crossed at the ankles.

“That’s everything. If you’ll excuse me, then,” she says, eager to get out of the cabin before she does anything they’ll all regret.

As she scoots her chair out and pushes off the table into a standing position, Leon retracts his feet to set them on the floor. Thus proving what she already knew: that he was only really sitting that way specifically to get on her nerves.

“Aw, leaving so soon? No desire to stick around and keep your dear old friend Leon company? And here I thought you enjoyed my presence,” he says when he catches her eyes tracking his feet to the ground.

“Not that much.”

He smiles, unoffended. “Ouch.”

“I’m surprised your only complaint is that I’m not giving you enough attention,” she says airly. Then her expression darkens as she pointedly adds, “Though perhaps I’m the fool for thinking you capable of concerning yourself with something like the upkeep of the ship. No need to check the logs on our supplies or complete a list of necessities to get the ship back in proper working order, I’m sure.”

She punctuates the thought by flipping the book on the table before her shut with a resounding _thump!_

He barely blinks. “Well, there _shouldn’t_ be any need, if you’ve done your job correctly, should there?”

She folds her arms across her chest. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“No, of course not,” he says, acting aghast. “I simply have faith in the most capable member of my crew. Is that such a bad thing?”

“Even the most capable people make more mistakes than blind successes. That’s just life.”

He has the nerve to actually _tsk, tsk_ at her. Ass.

Then he says, “My, my. Such a bleak outlook.”

She fires back, “I’d rather have a mistake of mine caught early than confidently sail to my doom because of an easily repaired support beam giving way in the _next_ typhoon we’re sucked into.”

He raises a brow at her. “Well, then, why not simply refrain from making any mistakes in the first place? That solves all our problems, don’t you think?”

“Refrain from mistakes?” Dolce asks in quiet outrage. “You mean, refrain from mistakes like not listening to your navigator or your helmsman when they warn you about the weather? Or did you perhaps mean mistakes like pursuing something so single-mindedly that you don’t give a damn whose lives you might be throwing away to get there?”

Leon’s eyebrows involuntarily jump up a couple millimeters before he’s able to stop them. His face is otherwise carefully blank, at least until he turns a mask of bemused indifference on her, an expression that too-clearly reads, _‘Oh, alright, if this is what we need to do for now to make_ you _feel better; by all means, go right ahead.’_

A more petty part of Dolce wants to refuse to speak any more, not if he’s going to act like he’s doing her a favor by _allowing_ her to do so. The part of Dolce that knows better than to trust Leon’s expression to reflect his true feelings really wants to hit him where it hurts, though, and unfortunately, she’s just a little too wrung out to be emotionally mature for the both of them at the moment.

She seethes, “There wouldn’t even _be_ a situation in which any mistakes could be made _in the first place_ if it weren’t for your stupid _vendetta_ against that—”

Leon raises his hands, palms out, and in an exaggeratedly placating voice interrupts, “Hey, as I just said, refraining from mistakes is _your_ job, not mi—”

“ _Leon,_ ” Dolce growls, harshly enough that even he shuts up completely.

Any other day, and perhaps Dolce wouldn’t mind going through this whole song and dance. She might even enjoy it. Deep, _deep_ down. Today, however, she is exhausted, and stressed, and frustrated. She has been up far too long—first to make sure the ship endured through the last of the storm, and then after it had been safe to say it was over, she’d spent the rest of the night taking stock of the damages to personnel and equipment. She had taken a very (very) brief nap at Lin Fa’s insistence, and she’d only felt comfortable enough to do so because Lin Fa had promised she’d personally supervise Bado to make sure he really did the repair work that was more immediately necessary to keep the ship afloat. If Dolce hadn’t watched her bodily drag him off of his lazy ass, she almost certainly wouldn’t have found the peace of mind to rest at all.

Honestly, it’s a wonder Dolce hadn’t hit her breaking point sooner. It’s a testament to how unnervingly quiet Leon’s been ever since the battle, she supposes. Why he chose now of all times to break the self-imposed silence is beyond Dolce.

If he simply didn’t want to be alone, there is a literal boatload of work that needs to get done. He’s more than welcome to decide to pitch in any time he likes.

“Can we not do this right now? I have a headache,” she settles for saying.

So of course, he replies, “Oh dear! You ought to have our darling Lady Surgeon check on that for you, don’t you think?”

Through gritted teeth, Dolce mutters, “Great idea. I’m sure that’ll be just the thing. In fact, I’ll be getting right on that.”

She turns to leave. Of course, things can never be so easy with Leon.

“Make sure you tell the crew that we will not be tolerating boarding of any kind after this, would you?” he asks, playing it off as being offhanded. He even goes so far as to flip open the logbook, though Dolce knows full well that he isn’t really reading the information within it.

Dolce takes a deep breath. She won’t rise to the bait. Probably. “And why, pray tell, should I be the one to do that?”

Leon tips the book in her direction and says, “Well, I’d do it, but I really have my hands full here. Since some people—who won’t be named, seeing as I’m a professional and an ethical boss—seem to believe their work is _riddled_ with mistakes, I’ve just got to take some time out of my very busy schedule to check it over.”

Dolce could swear her eye twitches. Maybe it’s just that she wants to strangle him so bad, her eye is unconsciously trying to strangle him out of her field of vision.

“Well, maybe,” she replies lowly, “if you weren’t so busy spending so much time mooning over—”

“I’m sorry,” Leon butts in, dropping the book closed again and certainly not feeling sorry in the least, “I must have misheard. Exactly who’s the one who’s _‘mooning,’_ now?”

He gives Dolce a triumphant, knowing smirk. She hopes for his sake that the thing he’s so smug about is knowing just how deeply unamused she is.

“Good to see you’re still just as good at deflection as always. Maybe next time there’s a storm encroaching on the ship, I’ll send you out there to annoy it into a different direction.”

“Ah. If that’s what you wanted me to do, all you had to do was ask.”

Dolce scrunches up her nose and squints at his stupid, smug emotional walls. There’s a limit to how much she’s willing to indulge, and she knows better than most the idiotic methods Leon likes to use to punish himself. It’s not as fun to yell at him when that’s exactly what he wants. And it generally _is_ what he wants (though perhaps not always in this particular way), which is why Dolce doesn’t usually bother doing any of the yelling.

She sighs, mutters, “I’ll keep that in mind, Captain,” and turns to finally leave the captain’s cabin (which is really more of an extra unofficial office than the den of indulgence showcasing Leon’s particularly ostentatious and opulent tastes that many presume it to be). She twists the door handle—which itself actually _is_ quite overly extravagant, to those same people’s credit—open harshly, the way she probably should have done immediately once she’d finished her work.

“Oh, and, Dolce?”

She pauses halfway through the door. For a moment she seriously considers just continuing out and not sticking around to hear whatever nonsense is about to drop out of Leon’s mouth next. It’s almost certainly not going to be something she wants to hear.

Against her better judgment, she stops and half-turns back around. The look on Leon’s face does nothing to make her regret her decision any less.

“What.”

“Would you be a _doll_ and give those two stowaways their assignments for me?” he drawls, batting his eyelashes at her as though this is something which will help his case rather than hurt it. “Pretty please?”

Dolce responds flatly, “Is that an order, _sir_.”

He hums, as if actually considering it. Then he steps forward to slide a hand over to her far shoulder and lean his weight into her, as though he’s going to tell her some sort of asinine secret she’d much prefer he kept to himself.

“I’d really rather it not be, wouldn’t you?” he whines, more or less directly into her ear.

She shrugs. Unfortunately, this does nothing to shake him off.

“Doesn’t particularly make a difference to me.”

“Excellent,” he replies brightly, slipping his arm from its spot resting across her shoulders so he can lightly shove her forward with a hand to her lower back. “I’ll leave it to you, then!”

Now out in the open air under the bright, clear, post-storm sky, she turns to smack his hand away like the particularly annoying insect it might as well be. He takes the opportunity to flash her an audacious wink as he leans hip-first into the door to keep it propped open. She is unimpressed.

“You don’t pay me enough for this shit. _Captain._ ”

“Oh? Perhaps if _you_ hadn’t been so insistent that the brig was too good for our little _‘guests’_ over there, then there wouldn’t be any need to do _‘this shit’_ at all, hm?”

“I apologize for the confusion. I was referring to the fiscal compensation you have neglected to provide as reparation for the damages incurred by the occupational hazard that is being your friend,” Dolce rattles off in a monotone. With a small, obviously false smile drawn taut over her lips, she adds, “Actually.”

She doesn’t bother waiting around to see what sort of comeback Leon will conjure up in response to that, instead walking off towards the stairs leading down from the quarter deck, eyes on the clearly out-of-place pair hovering close together on the fringes of the main deck. The enemy captain and first mate aren’t so much out of place because they look like they wouldn’t belong on the ship—to the contrary, if it weren’t for how uncomfortable they seem to be, they would fit in rather well, in Dolce’s fairly expert opinion.

The _clunk!_ of her boot touching down on the wood of the deck at the bottom of the stairs as she approaches the pair catches the man’s attention. His head very swiftly snaps in her direction, and his eyes lock onto Dolce’s in an instant. His companion, meanwhile, continues to drowsily watch the bustle of the crew around them.

And perhaps Dolce was too hasty in her judgement. It isn’t that they look out of place because of how uncomfortable they _both_ look, but rather because of how uncomfortable this man—Captain Lest, wasn’t it?—appears to be, specifically. The woman might look out of place in how she isn’t quite participating in all the work that’s going on around her, but not nearly so much as her companion. Were she standing here on her lonesome, she might have a better time blending into the background.

Then again, she might not.

Dolce knows that it is, perhaps, not quite the right time to notice the way the bright sunlight catches on messy violet flyaways, long forgotten where they’ve been blown out of what was once probably a pair of nice, neat braids; nor the solid line of her straight back, surprisingly steady in spite of the rocking of the deck and its owner’s apparent fatigue; nor the faint rosy tint dusting across soft cheekbones in response to the stinging salty breeze.

It’s not the time for it. If Leon were to have his way, it would never be the time for it, but Dolce has never put much stock into letting Leon have his way before, at least not when he’s being blatantly stupid about something, and she isn’t about to start now.

So maybe Dolce takes a second, maybe half of one, to let her attention drift into considering that this woman might not blend so easily into the background after all, not to anyone with even the slightest sense of taste. Maybe Dolce takes a second to note her lean muscles, not so defined as Forte’s but undoubtedly still strong. Her shoulders, and the way they betray a confidence in conflict with the way her clasped hands suggest reservation. Her expression, so sleepy and yet somehow not lacking in alertness because of it.

And her eyes—

Leon’s too-cheery, “Hey, Dolce, heads up!” is all the warning Dolce receives before she whirls around and very barely manages to snatch the long object which has been unceremoniously hucked at her head out of the air before it can smack her directly in the face. But, again, _barely_.

Dolce knows the entire crew well enough by now that she isn’t under any pretense that any person on this ship is legitimately scared of her. If any of them even ever were, that ship has long since sailed. Unfortunately.

With that in mind, Dolce is grimly satisfied with the way the people nearest to her flinch and scuttle away and busy themselves with other things which are not in her direct vicinity—only slightly too quickly for it to not very obviously be an excuse rather than a coincidence—when they catch sight of the look on her face. Because she’s really channeling a whole awful lot of recent frustration into her glare right now, and, hey, it’s always nice to have her efforts be appreciated.

Leon laughs genially from his vantage point leaning over the railing on the deck above her, arm still loosely outstretched as though specifically to prove that it had been the source of the impromptu projectile.

So. Her efforts are appreciated, maybe, by everyone except the rightful recipient of the full force of her irritation. _Of course._ How could she possibly expect anything less.

Unnecessarily, seeing as they aren’t exactly separated by very much physical space at all—perhaps at most a couple yards between where Leon is leaning over the railing and where Dolce has just reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed in front of the wall of the above deck—Leon cups his hands around his mouth so he can call down to her. Loudly enough to carry to the whole ship, no doubt.

“Forgot to give you my _gift_ for our new _friends_ ,” he says by way of explanation. “Please _do_ see to it that they receive it right away, won’t you?”

He chooses to punctuate this by folding his arms over the railing he’s leaning on with a wolfish curl to his lips, as though somehow the extremely non-veiled half-threats he’d sprinkled into his little speech just now hadn’t made his disdain clear enough on their own.

Dolce is more pissed than ever that she still hasn’t had the time to mend her hat yet. She’d love to have a brim to level her glare beneath, right about now. Two can play at overtly villainous posturing, after all, but only one of them _actually_ has a good poker face. The only reason people don’t realize Leon’s is shit is because they never bother to look past the handsome mask that veils his inner demons.

They’re really not all that impressive as far as demons go, either, in Dolce’s opinion. He always exaggerates everything in all the wrong directions.

Instead of dignifying Leon’s antics with a response, Dolce merely turns back around. It takes everything in her to not groan and roll her eyes all the way back into her skull, but somehow she manages to hold it in. It’s a near thing, though.

She’s not sure what her expression looks like as a result, but she is sure that however it does, Captain Lest is not a huge fan of it. He sets his hand on his sword at his belt—the very same sword which, of course, Dolce had been so kind as to return to him yesterday. For her part, the woman only blinks and turns to face Dolce as though in response to the heightened stress of her captain and nothing else. It seems the pair of them are well in tune with one another.

Sort of. Lest is a tightened bow string, taut enough he looks as though he might snap and fire sharply pointed arrows at any time, but his companion is instead perhaps the bow of a violin, humming as her thoughts slide across their strings.

She regards Dolce with open curiosity, especially when she catches sight of Leon’s ‘gift’ in her hands.

“Good morning,” she says with a small yawn, taking initiative before even Dolce herself can.

“Morning,” Dolce replies, eying Lest’s dark eyebags. She has a suspicion not everyone agrees on the ‘good’ part.

Lest says nothing, eyes trained on Dolce’s pistols, mouth tightly shut.

“How is the ship?” the woman asks politely, pleasantly. “If the captain or I were any good with repairs, we would offer to help, but…”

Dolce sighs and does her damnedest to resist the temptation to go back to massaging her temples. “Kind of you to offer, but I’m not sure the sentiment would go over very well with Captain Leon either way.”

Lest flinches at the mention of the name, and somehow the familiarity of the gesture is kind of comforting. Good to know they’re _both_ utter fools. She’d have felt betrayed if one of them were actually smart, after all this time.

Dolce sees something like recognition flicker across the other woman’s face, though just barely. If Dolce herself weren’t so accustomed with the feeling, she might have missed it entirely. As soon as it comes, it’s gone, fading back into the calm, lax expression the woman wears. Dolce is aware that Lest is a fairly good swordsman, and likely a good captain, else he’d have long since been bested by Leon, but for the first time she thinks perhaps she’s been underestimating his first mate, however slightly. She seems more aware, more shrewd, than she likes to let on.

“I see,” she murmurs, not quite making direct eye contact with Dolce but not quite looking away, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s as close to a _thank you_ as Dolce has ever received from a so-called prisoner, that’s for sure. Keeping her face carefully devoid of emotion, she replies, “See that you do.”

Lest curls his lip and shifts his weight ever so slightly in his companion’s direction, as though looking to put himself between she and Dolce as he’d done during the storm. He all but snarls, “Enough with the pleasantries. Just tell us what he— what _you_ intend to do with us.”

Ms. Pleasantries herself takes a half step forward, subtly circumventing his protective stance and edging onto equal footing. She rests a hand on Lest’s stiff shoulder, and Dolce takes note of the way he doesn’t seem to notice that she’s done anything in contrast to himself. He reluctantly takes his eyes off Dolce to glance at her, but before he can go back to _never taking his eyes off the enemy_ or whatever it is he thinks he’s doing, his first mate catches him in some sort of nonverbal conversation. One which he seems to lose, if the way his eyebrows draw together is any indication.

She beats him to speaking up again, turning a small, subtly triumphant smile in Dolce’s direction. She wishes it weren’t as disarming as it is. Dolce will have to watch herself with this one.

Twin braids swinging idly in the breeze, she asks Dolce, “Was there something else you needed from us? As you know, we are both quite accustomed to life onboard a ship such as this.”

Her eyes lazily trace the object in Dolce’s hand. Which, coincidentally, Dolce had very nearly forgotten she was holding. She taps it on the floor lightly, the other woman’s gaze following the slight motion.

“Ah, yes. The captain wanted me to inform you that you’re welcome to your own private quarters… in the brig,” Dolce starts, watching with disinterest as Lest’s hand tightens over the handle of his cutlass. “However, I am of the opinion that those on this ship who don’t work don’t eat. Therefore, as the _Guardian_ ’s ‘honored guests’—the captain’s words, not mine—I’ll leave the choice to you. You can assist our deckhands in repairing the damages inflicted by _your_ ship, or I can escort you down below.”

It’s not _really_ a choice. But just because she disagrees with Leon and his methods, that doesn’t mean she’s about to let enemies onto their ship without at least a little soft threatening. And if she’s going to vent any of her frustration at Leon to anyone, she’d rather do it in the direction of strangers than friends.

“You’re not really giving us an option, are you,” Lest responds, frowning, more stating facts than asking for clarification. Credit where it’s due—at least he isn’t oblivious enough to miss that much. Not that the bar has been set very high.

Dolce finally lets her blank face crack a little to winkle her nose and frown slightly, allowing a fair amount of honest annoyance to leak through her expression.

“I wish I could say so. By all means, if you want to make Captain Leon’s day, you’re welcome to go hungry, no matter how much I may personally disagree with wasting useful assets such as yourselves.”

Lest doesn’t show it very strongly on his face, which is somewhat surprising to Dolce given the range of expressions he’s displayed thus far, but she can tell her words have the desired effect. She’s pretty sure he’s aware of what she’s doing, which makes it all the more satisfying to know that it’s working anyway. She thinks he might have realized that, too.

Either way, it isn’t Lest who responds. Posture straight, the woman squares her shoulders to Dolce and dips her head in a shallow nod by way of acquiescence. “What would you have us do?”

Dolce lets a somewhat empty smile quirk the corner of her lips. “I’m sure you’re both familiar with the concept of seniority when it comes to deckhands, are you not? I’m afraid we don’t make exceptions for previously held positions, here. Maybe if you do good work, the captain will let you climb the ladder.”

He won’t and all three of them know it, but Dolce can see slight resignation in the way Lest’s hand loosens its deathgrip on his sword. However, she can’t quite tell what the woman is thinking as she regards Dolce with half-lidded eyes.

Expression intriguingly unreadable but no more unpleasant for it, she steps forward and reaches for Leon’s ‘gift’ with a sense of finality. Unfortunately for her, that just won’t do.

“Ah, ah,” Dolce says, drawing it back and away from her. She swings it around into her other hand and thrusts the handle unmistakably in Lest’s face, instead. “Captain’s orders.”

Lest nearly goes cross-eyed staring at it, almost as though he’s never quite seen a mop before in the entirety of his life. Watching their respective reactions, Dolce is struck by the realization that neither Lest nor his companion had considered that he might be the one it was intended for. Of course, Leon hadn’t actually specified, so it isn’t true that it actually _had_ to be Lest, but Dolce finds her interest piqued. Was it simply a matter of rank, of habit, in that Lest is the captain of their ship and therefore presumably is not stuck with doing the more menial tasks, or is there some other reason they both seem taken aback by Dolce’s insistence that he do it, specifically?

Frowning, Lest finally gets his wits about him and wordlessly takes the proffered mop.

Deciding not to comment on the brief lapse in composure, Dolce asks, “I trust you know your way around swabbing a deck?”

“I’ll manage, somehow,” he says shortly, and Dolce has to bite back a real smile at his delivery. So he isn’t all high-strung solemnity, all the time, then.

“And what shall I do?” the woman asks, drawing her attention away from the mop and settling it on Dolce once more.

“Come with me,” she responds simply, brokering no room for argument.

Dolce walks away, further down the length of the deck. She doesn’t bother looking back to make sure her orders are being followed. If Lest takes issue with the lack of more specific instruction, he doesn’t mention it to Dolce. It’s only a short moment before she can hear the light tapping of feet falling against the deck behind her own, following after her.

Dolce leads her ‘prisoner’ down a flight of stairs to the lower deck, where they double back to walk around toward the rear of the ship. Dolce both is and isn’t surprised by the lack of hesitance on Lest’s first mate’s part to be following Dolce down into the belly of the beast, so to speak. And alone, at that. Despite being taken below deck, out of sight and out of reach from the only familiar face on this whole ship, she doesn’t offer so much as a peep of discomfort, and her steps don’t falter in their rhythm behind Dolce.

Dolce unsuccessfully swallows a smile at the thought of the look that must be crossing Captain Lest’s face, right about now. She can’t imagine he’s having quite as easy a time swallowing this particular pill.

Luckily, her back is still to the one person Dolce probably shouldn’t be letting see this particular smile, and everyone else down here is paying far more mind to the person following Dolce than to Dolce herself.

Everyone else down here, such as Forte, who is walking in the opposite direction when she sees them and pauses. Evidently, she’s in the middle of moving supplies, sporting a barrel balanced over one shoulder and a bucket in her other hand. She frowns at the ‘prisoner,’ looking as though she has something she wants to say but hasn’t yet worked out quite how to say it, and Dolce is forced to admit that her serious, fiercely protective expression in this moment reminds her a lot of the one Lest has been wearing every time they’ve spoken thus far.

Dolce decides it’s probably in all of their best interests that she keeps that particular observation to herself.

Instead, she nods at Forte and, without stopping, asks, “Is Pico still in?”

Forte reluctantly tears her gaze away from the adversary she’d dueled just yesterday to hesitantly tell Dolce, “I… believe so, yes.” Even as Dolce passes her, she can feel Forte’s frown following her. She isn’t surprised when Forte adds, “But, um—”

“Thank you, Forte,” Dolce interrupts, not turning around.

“Erm… Right,” Forte responds awkwardly, clearly unhappy but unable to bring herself to question Dolce’s motivations or try to stop her.

Quickly, before anyone else can follow Forte’s example, Dolce reaches and swings open the door to Pico’s office. She steps in and holds it open, gesturing for Lest’s first mate to follow her through.

She does so, looking curiously around the unfamiliar room as she enters. Dolce takes the opportunity to shoot one last pointed look back out at the few stragglers down on this deck who are still watching them, all of whom hastily get back to what they’re doing at her silent admonition. Satisfied, she shuts the door firmly behind her.

Glad to have escaped further incident, Dolce now finds their ‘guest’ to be taking in the sight of the medical office they’ve entered into, looking over the shelves lining the walls, the stack of crates in the corner, the surprisingly well-kept set of surgeon’s tools laid out on the table. Or, then again, maybe it’s not that they’re surprisingly well-kept and just that it’s surprising to know that Pico specifically is the one doing the well-keeping.

The woman is careful not to touch anything, hands neatly clasped before her.

There’s a soft _thump_ of something being dropped on the wooden floor from the far corner of the cabin, followed by Pico’s head of loosely tied purple pigtails popping up from where she’d previously been bent down and partially obscured by the table. Looking down at whatever her latest handiwork might be, she swipes her hands together as if to clean them of dust and sets them on her hips with a satisfied sigh.

“Oh.” The manifestation of Dolce’s latest responsibility on a seemingly never-ending list of responsibilities gasps softly, apparently not having noticed Pico’s presence earlier when she first walked in. She seems to recover quickly, however, greeting, “Ah, hello. Sorry to intrude.”

Oblivious, Pico’s head tilts to the side as she considers her next pile of haphazard crates, no doubt thrown into disarray by last night’s storm. She shifts her weight to one hip and taps her lower lip, head swiveling from the corner to the cabinet on the wall and back again.

To her credit, the _Lady_ ’s sailor doesn’t seem particularly bothered to be so summarily ignored from where she stands politely in the middle of the room.

Dolce sighs. Instead of wasting time explaining, she crosses the room and taps Pico firmly on the shoulder.

Pico’s head pops up at the familiar action, attentive, and she turns in Dolce’s direction. When she sees who it is, her face breaks into an infuriatingly wide grin that Dolce doesn’t really have the mental energy to deal with right now.

« _Dolly!_ »

Dolce holds out a very firm hand before Pico can fully latch herself around her waist. Pico pouts, and Dolce knows this isn’t something that will keep her at bay for any amount of time longer than a couple seconds—if she’s lucky—so she quickly gestures in the direction of the other person currently in the room. Pico follows the motion, noticing her for the first time, and raises both her eyebrows. They fall down again curiously as she turns back to Dolce, clearly asking for an explanation.

Dolce quickly signs, «She’s one of our ‘guests’ from the _Lady_. I doubt she’ll try anything, but don’t let your guard down.»

Pico crosses her arms over her chest, clearly unimpressed by the last part. Then she turns her attention back to the newcomer, head tilting as she looks her over with fresh eyes.

Said newcomer doesn’t react much to the scrutiny, which isn’t altogether surprising after how much she’s been subjected to it over the past day or so by the rest of the crew. Dolce does find her watching Dolce’s hands curiously as she speaks to Pico with them, though the woman looks away to focus on Pico’s face when Dolce catches her watching.

After a moment wherein Pico and the _Lady_ ’s woman simply stare at each other, the woman raises a hand and waves. It takes Dolce half a moment to recognize that she’s repeating her greeting from earlier, that simple _hello_ , just in a way she knows Pico can actually understand, this time. And that’s…

Dolce’s not sure _how_ exactly she feels about that.

She does believe her suspicions are proving themselves correct, at the least. This woman is more attentive than she lets on, and moreover, she’s dangerous. Dolce just hasn’t decided in what way that is yet. And she isn’t about to express any of those feelings to anyone before she figures that out.

Pico doesn’t have the same sort of reservations about sharing her emotions, though, so Dolce knows for a fact that she’s getting a kick out of the gesture. Her face splits into something somewhere between a smirk and a grin as she waves back.

She turns to Dolce with an amused expression on her face and says, «Pretty polite for a ‘prisoner,’ huh?»

Dolce doesn’t dignify that with a response. Not that there’s any response she could really give to it, even if she wanted to. Pico isn’t wrong, not by any means.

Either way, after she crosses back over towards the newcomer’s side of the room while the other two have their impromptu greeting stare-down, Dolce faces Pico and clears her throat. She briefly laments the fact that she can’t give her hoarse, storm-weary voice a break the way she normally would be able to in here, but there’s no point in focusing on it, so she puts it out of her mind for now. Once she has their attention, she signs along as she speaks aloud.

“This is Pico, the _Guardian_ ’s resident surgeon,” she introduces. “Pico, this is…”

Dolce pauses, meaning to take a moment to think about how to spell through the woman’s name, when she comes to the unfortunate realization that she simply can’t.

Because, of course, she’d never bothered to get it in the first place.

How Dolce let this happen is beyond her. Somewhere in between ordering the two boarders from the _Lady_ around during the storm last night and her exhaustion from lack of sleep and her irritation at Leon this morning, she hadn’t ever bothered to think to ask. Of course, she’s a little too embarrassed to want to admit to that now, however, so…

The woman giggles softly, though she brings up a hand to cover it as best she can. Evidently, she’s been more aware of this issue than Dolce has been. Unable to fully hide her amusement, she provides, “Clorica.”

Pico snorts with the kind of loud, unfiltered, not-at-all-self-conscious derision that only a deaf person can fully achieve. Or, maybe not all deaf people, but the one in Dolce’s unfortunate experience, at least.

«Seriously, Dolly?» Pico asks, eyebrow raised.

Doing her damnedest not to blush, Dolce steamrolls through it as best she can. “Clorica,” she repeats, signing, «C-L-O-R-I-C-A.»

Dolce refuses to make eye contact with _Clorica_ at the moment, but she swears she can feel the way the other woman is still smiling at her.

Instead of saying anything about Dolce’s lack of foresight, Clorica says, “It’s nice to meet you, Pico.”

She might say it a little more clearly than she would’ve otherwise, but she doesn’t shout it, and she doesn’t over-exaggerate the movements of her mouth. Treating Pico like a person is obviously a very low bar, Dolce knows this, but she can’t help but be a little… impressed? Relieved? If Clorica’s pleasant temperament thus far has been simply an act to get Dolce to let her guard down, Dolce’s not so sure she wouldn’t have overdone it when presented with someone with a ‘pitiable’ kind of disability, regardless of her real personal feelings about it. Either Clorica is really, really good at this, or she’s genuinely a kind person.

Whatever the case, Dolce translates what Clorica says. And then, extremely reluctantly, she also accurately translates Pico’s response of, «You, too! You’re definitely my favorite prisoner that we’ve ever had!»

At the end of that, Dolce also tacks on, “Just ignore her.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Dolce can see Clorica’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t giggle, this time. Dolce tries not to let the fact that she notices bother her too much.

“And, um,” Clorica says, “I didn’t have the chance to say it earlier, but it was nice to meet you, too…”

She trails off, and for a moment Dolce is convinced she’s somehow forgotten the end of her sentence until she finally makes eye contact with Clorica again and finds her looking back expectantly.

Dolce frowns, but before she can respond, Pico stomps her foot twice to get her attention.

With an exasperated expression on her face, she says, «Dolly.»

Dolce frowns. « _What_.»

Pico’s mouth drops open in exaggerated disbelief. Drawing out the motions excessively long, she signs, « _Doooollyyyy._ »

Dolce huffs, overly aware of Clorica’s eyes sliding back and forth between the conversation she’s being excluded from. «Pico, I don’t have time for your—»

Pico does something of a full body eye-roll, if that exists. Excruciatingly slowly and exaggeratedly, as though she’s teaching someone all the gestures individually for the first time, Pico signs, «You. Are. _Dolly_.»

She pauses, and Dolce squints at her. She does not have the energy for this. «Can you please just—»

«Your _name_ , dummy!»

«I _know_ that’s my—»

Dolce freezes mid-sign, feeling more singularly foolish than she has in quite some time. Oh. Just— oh. God _dammit_ , Pico.

That’s. Yeah. Dolce has had a good run, all things considered. Maybe the timing’s just about right for her to go voluntarily throw herself overboard, anyway. Hey, it’d be one way to get some much-deserved rest, that’s for sure.

She’s so busy waiting for her brain to stop stalling and think of something intelligent to do that she almost misses the fact that Pico and Clorica seem to be… having a conversation? Without her?

No, not a conversation. They’re just signing the same thing at each other, back and forth. Or at least, Pico is. Clorica seems to be attempting to copy the motion while Pico corrects her.

«Dolly.»

It’s actually the sign for _‘doll’_ —sliding the letter ‘x’ down the front of the nose a couple times—but with that added _Pico flair_ because of course, _«‘Doll’ is just too_ boring _, Dolly!»_ and plain old ‘D-O-L-C-E’ was (unfortunately) never really an option to begin with. So, instead, ‘Dolly’ is some kind of horrid amalgamation of an ‘x’ and a ‘y’ at the same time, slid down the nose in the same way as the original ‘doll’ sign. _«It looks a little tiny bit like the hand position for ‘I love you’ that way! Now you’ll know I’m telling you that every time I say your name! Plus, ‘Dolly’ obviously has a ‘y’ in it, and we gotta let people know, duh.»_

Clorica makes that same little, “Oh,” sound from earlier when she notices Dolce watching them, and Pico, following her gaze, snickers unabashedly at whatever stupid look Dolce has on her face. She doesn’t even want to know.

Then Clorica smiles, and if Dolce weren’t already an absolute disaster, the sincerity in it might be too much to bear, but as it is, she somehow manages to continue standing very still in much the same position as she’s been for who knows how long.

Clorica repeats, “I didn’t get the chance to say it before, but it was nice to meet you,” and then with an unfairly sweet amount of concentration, she finishes, «Dolly.»

Pico snickers again, no doubt at how red Dolce’s face must be right now. Which, frankly? Sucks. Not to mention, isn’t really a good look for someone who’s supposed to be keeping an eye on a prisoner of the ship.

So, only mostly awkwardly, she coughs, “That’s not— Dolce. It’s Dolce.”

Clorica doesn’t miss a beat. She repeats, “Dolce,” while she simultaneously signs, «Dolly,» fumbling with the gesture just a little bit more than the last time.

And— Okay, definitely not focusing on the way her name sounds in Clorica’s voice. So… soft, so sweet. It’s not really the way her name deserves to be said.

So instead of thinking about that, Dolce says, “That’s not actually— That doesn’t actually mean anything. She,” Dolce jerks her thumb at Pico, who smiles proudly, “just made it up out of the sign for ‘doll.’” Dolce demonstrates the actual sign, and then, almost certainly still red-faced and feeling extremely awkward, she grumbles, “…and some other stuff, I guess. It’s meaningless.”

Clorica copies, «Doll,» almost unintentionally, like she isn’t actually paying attention to the fact that she’s doing it. Out loud, she says, “I see. So it’s a nickname.” She looks way too pleased about it. Dolce isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do about the pretty smile on Clorica’s face.

Only, the next thing Clorica says is, “Does that mean… ‘Dolly’ is meant to be kind of like ‘Marionetta,’ then?”

And that sobers Dolce right up. Whatever blush remained on her face cools off instantly as she scowls at the floorboards.

“Yeah. Sure,” she bites brusquely.

Maybe that was too harsh an answer, but Clorica takes the hint quickly. She expertly steers the subject away from _that_ particular topic, asking, “So, did you bring me down here because you want me to assist Pico with her duties for the day?”

She really is dangerous, isn’t she? Still, Dolce isn’t about to take such a kind gift for granted, regardless of how dangerous the gifter is.

“Actually, no. Pico is more than capable of handling things here on her own,” Dolce answers.

«Hey, excuse you! That storm messed everything up real good. I could absolutely use some extra helping hands around here, thank you very much! She can start with organizing the cabinet.»

“She says she appreciates the offer, but she’s going to have to decline. You’ll have to excuse her, she’s proud like that,” Dolce ‘translates,’ face blank. She does still accurately sign what she’s saying for Pico’s benefit, of course.

Pico sputters, or at least, she waves her hands uselessly in the air in front of herself for a moment before she folds both arms over her chest, huffing lightly.

Dolce’s pretty sure Clorica can tell something’s up with that—it’s been well established by now that the woman isn’t blind, after all—but she doesn’t call them on it, instead tilting her head curiously, patiently waiting for Dolce to explain what the real reason is, if not that.

And, well, Dolce _could_ spare herself the embarrassment of saying what it is out loud by just telling Pico in sign language and then fucking walking out the door to avoid the consequences of her actions entirely, but unfortunately that kind of goes against that whole pesky moral code thing. She supposes it also breaks a bit of a promise she’s made to Pico in the past, but that’s kind of secondary. Honest.

She sighs and walks over to pull one of the chairs into the middle of the room. “Sit,” she orders, but she sounds more tired than commanding, if she’s being honest with herself.

It doesn’t look like that’s cleared anything up for Clorica, but she does what’s asked of her without complaint.

“Pico here is going to check out your head wound. From yesterday.”

Pico raises an incredulous eyebrow. Clorica blinks and sits up a little straighter, evidently surprised either that Dolce had brought it up or that she’d even noticed it at all.

Trying to ignore them both for different reasons, Dolce explains, “The last damn thing this ship needs right now is to waste personnel dealing with some kind of infection that could have easily been avoided if everyone’s wounds were properly tended to in the first place. I’ve already sent everyone else in here first thing this morning, and I know Leon didn’t dare to actually touch a hair on your precious captain’s head. So that just leaves you.”

Maybe that’s a little more information than she should strictly be giving out to _the enemy_ , but frankly Dolce’s too sick of nonsense at the moment to bother to censor herself adequately. She’s got a sneaking suspicion she isn’t saying anything Clorica doesn’t already know, anyway.

«Seriously, Dolly? That really the best you could come up with?» Pico asks, grin curling. Dolce decides not to translate this part.

«The cut was on the left side of her forehead. Hurry up, before Leon has a conniption when he realizes he can’t see every single thing happening on this ship every single second.»

Pico scoffs and shakes her head. «You’re hopeless.»

She does also grab a bag of supplies that have been haphazardly tossed on the floor by the door and sets them on the table nearest to Clorica, though. Clorica watches the whole thing with interest, still seeming surprised that Dolce was being serious. Dolce takes a step back to lean against the wall by the door and take some of her weight off her aching feet.

«Alright, well, I’m gonna need you to take off that sorry excuse for a bandage if you actually want me to look at anything.»

While Dolce is translating, Pico gestures at the torn piece of cloth—part of Lest’s shirt, Dolce thinks—that’s wrapped somewhat haphazardly around Clorica’s forehead, clearly thrown on in a hurry. It’s not particularly the cleanest bandage in the world either, not after everything with the storm last night.

Clorica says, “Oh, of course,” and she pulls it off her head herself.

Pico gets to work, first inspecting the cut and then turning to grab some of her things from her bag once she’s seen what she’s working with.

Clorica watches her at first, but then her eyes drift over to meet Dolce’s.

After a moment in which they are simply looking at each other, Clorica murmurs, “Thank you, by the way.”

Dolce lifts an eyebrow. “I honestly wasn’t kidding about the infection thing. I’m not wasting time on someone getting seriously sick or worse for no reason.”

“Oh, no, not for that. Or, well,” Clorica says thoughtfully, pausing as Pico dabs something across her cut, “I should thank you for this as well, but that’s not what I was talking about.”

If Pico’s ministrations are hurting her, Clorica doesn’t let on much through her expression. Dolce doesn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.

“I wanted to thank you for yesterday. That woman—I believe you called her Forte just now, out there?—she certainly would have gotten the better of me if you hadn’t called her off. So, thank you.”

Oh. _That_ , huh. With everything else that’s happened, Dolce had nearly forgotten.

“Don’t give me all the credit. Not just anyone could have hung with her so long. It’s rather amazing you got out of that fight with only that,” she gestures at the wound on Clorica’s forehead that is currently being treated, “to show for it.”

“Mmm. Truth be told, I don’t think her heart was really in it,” Clorica muses. Dolce wonders if that means Clorica’s heart _had_ been in her duel with Forte. Before she can say anything to the effect, Clorica amends, “Rather, I don’t think her heart was in it until I threw Lest into that boy in the green—the pilot, maybe? I know he was at the helm during the worst of the storm. She didn’t so much as nick me aside from then, even though I’m sure she could have.”

“Ah.”

Well, that does explain that. Dolce knows Forte takes her duties (and, honestly, most things she does in general) very seriously, so she had been under the impression that the reason Clorica was still standing at all had simply been because she hadn’t been on the ship for very long before Dolce herself had seen the two of them fighting.

Actually, if Forte really was holding back until Kiel was in danger, which is sounding like it probably is the case, Dolce may need to have a word with her, after all. If anything, just out of curiosity. Was it her sense of justice telling her it was a pointless battle, or was it her way of showing her disdain for Leon, of quietly rebelling against his orders? Either way, it’s sure to brighten Dolce’s day considerably if she can shit-talk Leon with Forte, at least for a little while.

Clorica has been studying Dolce’s face curiously, possibly since she didn’t offer any sort of real response to her story just now. Not that she’s going to, though.

It’s one thing to give up information she shouldn’t about herself, or about Leon, and another entirely to go around giving leverage like revealing that Kiel and Forte are each other’s only family or that they’d do anything for each other. Dolce might not be the best at this whole ‘captor’ business, but she’s not a total fool.

Still regarding Dolce’s silence, though not seeming overly bothered by it, Clorica doesn’t so much break the quiet around them as she does slip through it entirely.

She asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you do it?”

“Sort of an odd request from someone in your position,” Dolce remarks.

Clorica shrugs, but goes still again sheepishly when Pico levels her with a glare from where she’s still working on the dressings for her wound. She doesn’t offer any kind of defense or explanation for Dolce though. Seems Dolce isn’t going to be able to avoid her way out of this.

Of course, she doesn’t have to do ‘this’ at all, not really. She could always just not answer.

So of course, instead of that, she finds herself saying, “Despite the best efforts of _certain_ people, not everyone on this ship actually has it out for the _Lady_. It’s bad enough that _my_ crew has been dragged into the whole thing. I just don’t see the need to throw people’s lives away on this. I don’t like pointless waste.”

Clorica hums. Her expression doesn’t change much, and she’s doing her best not to move after Pico had admonished her the last time, so Dolce isn’t really sure on what her reaction is. No skin off Dolce’s back. It’s not like any of that was a secret, or anything.

When Clorica doesn’t reply, Dolce adds, “Don’t get any bright ideas, though. My crew still comes first. If either of you does anything that I think will endanger any of my people, you’ll be answering to me first and foremost, and Pico won’t be quite so gentle with you after.”

“Mmn,” Clorica sighs, though not unhappily by any means. Her eyes fall shut contemplatively. Dolce would wager that she understands where Dolce is coming from rather well. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

It’s Dolce’s turn to hum noncommittally. She supposes it’s probably a good thing to learn what to expect from one’s enemies, but so far there hasn’t been anything overly surprising.

Clorica’s eyes track Pico as she turns to rummage around in her bag for something. Without looking back up at Dolce, she asks, “And what about letting us go about the ship without restraints? How do you know we won’t try to sabotage you?”

“I have a feeling you won’t,” Dolce answers honestly. She doesn’t see a reason to lie, or at least not any good reason. Not any that she particularly cares about.

As Dolce watches Pico starting to tie things up, she feels somewhat grateful that her friend has her hands full right now. She’s probably been too busy to have been making any attempts at reading Dolce’s lips. …Maybe.

Well, not that Pico’s all that good at reading lips, really. She just happens to be quite good at reading _Dolce_ , and that actually sounds much, much worse, right now.

“A ‘feeling’? Is that right…” Clorica murmurs, seemingly more to herself than anyone else. She glances back over at Dolce and says, “Well, I had a feeling I was doing the right thing by following Lest, and I think that feeling has worked out just fine so far.”

The small, sunny smile on this woman’s face really shouldn’t be there, Dolce knows, considering the position she is currently in as essentially a prisoner, and one forced to do work for her captors to boot. That said, Dolce just can’t seem to find it in herself to be bothered by its presence. Quite the opposite, really.

Maybe that should be more worrisome, but maybe Dolce just doesn’t really care anymore. This stupid little game of cat and mouse has gone on long enough, and, frankly, even if it turns out that Amber and Dylas have been living a life of luxury on the other ship this whole time, Dolce’s still pissed at Leon for getting them into a situation where they could get stranded like that anyway. It’s one thing to pursue and battle the _Lady_ , but it’s another entirely to put the crew in so much danger by ignoring the storm. It’s a miracle the _Guardian_ herself was able to escape with as little damage as she did, and even then there are still a considerable amount of repairs to be done.

So what does Dolce care if she befriends her so-called enemy, when her so-called friend is so busy putting everyone she loves in danger?

«There. All done!» Pico says once the wound is properly dressed and she’s satisfied with the security of the fresh, clean bandage wrapped around Clorica’s head.

It’s not actually a very large wrapping or anything—the cut hadn’t really been all that deep—but it looks much more hygienic than the previous tattered rag Clorica’s been wearing around.

Clorica turns her bright, subdued little smile on Pico and says, “Thank you very much.”

Pico lifts her chin proudly. «Well, I am the best at this junk, so you couldn’t be in better hands!»

Dolce rolls her eyes while she translates. Pico sticks her tongue out in response.

«Just make sure you come by again later so I can check it again, alright? And then as payment you can also help me out with cleaning up around here while you’re—»

Pico inhales a sharp breath as she catches sight of the ball of discarded wrapping Dolce found lying in the corner by the door hurtling directly for her from where Dolce lobbed it. She doesn’t fully manage to dodge out of the way in time, though, so it beans her in the shoulder before it plops to the floor.

Clorica watches it fall. She blinks at it a few times. Her head tilts slightly to the side, like she isn’t sure what she’s looking at. It’s kind of cute, or it would be if Dolce were paying attention to that sort of thing. Which she… probably isn’t. Most… most likely. Not! Most likely _not_.

…Yeah, so Dolce’s screwed. At least she’s found a really easy new way she’ll be able to piss Leon off in the process.

Pico huffs unhappily, either unaware of or (more likely) simply distracted from Dolce’s current mental plight. «Dolly! Those aren’t even _clean_ yet!!»

“Oops,” Dolce says with a shrug.

Pico scrunches her nose up, first at Dolce and then at the bundle of evidently soiled cloth now resting near her feet. She kicks at it with the toe of her boot, lips pursed.

Clorica stands from her chair. Of course, Dolce doesn’t actually know her very well, but she has a suspicion that the _Lady_ ’s first mate is at least a bit amused by all of this.

It isn’t too hard for Dolce to make sure her own face is painted with an overly bored expression. Mostly because she’s so damn exhausted that doing anything other than that is starting to actually become too much effort to bear.

“Alright then, you heard her,” Dolce says, meeting Clorica’s gaze once more. Then she frowns. “Well. Not literally, of course.”

Yeah, no. Clorica definitely looks amused, now.

Dolce coughs. “Anyway, we’re done here. Let’s get back above deck so I can tell you what you’ll be doing now.”

«Oh yeah, good idea, Dolly!» Pico says, heading toward the door with purpose. Purpose that Dolce definitely did not sign off on.

«Where do you think you’re going?» she signs silently, frowning.

And it’s true, Dolce might not be caring as much as she should about proving her unquestioned authority to someone who is technically not supposed to be here on the ship, but that doesn’t mean she necessarily wants to put how very much Pico does not give two shits about following orders on display for everyone and their enemy boarders to see.

With a wide, easy smile, one that speaks volumes to how much Pico knows she can and will piss Dolce off without any real lasting consequences, Pico replies, «I’m going to help you ‘escort’ the ‘prisoner,’ obviously.»

«No,» Dolce says simply, «You aren’t. You still need to finish cleaning this place up.»

Pico smirks. «Oh, uh-huh, yeah, absolutely. You sure about that one?»

«Yes,» Dolce replies firmly, leaving no room for argument.

* * *

«Hey, Dolly,» Pico signs, no doubt in an attempt to set the stage for some colorful new argument.

She jumps up and down on the wood of the main deck in front of Dolce to really drive the point home. The ribbons loosely holding together her pigtails bob up and down, threatening to come undone at any time. After the jumping is done, she resorts to poking her finger into Dolce’s side until she finally snaps and smacks her hand away.

Once she’s sure she has Dolce’s attention, as if Dolce hasn’t been singularly annoyed by her presence since the moment they left the medical office, Pico asks, «Do you think Leon realizes how obsessed with this guy he is yet?»

She turns to look down the length of the deck, in the direction Clorica walked off a minute ago, heading over to the area where the bulk of the things that still need tidying on the main deck are. Dolce follows her line of sight and very nearly catches Lest’s eye. The man whips his attention away before her gaze quite gets there. He seems to be grilling Clorica on where she’s been as best he can while Leon hovers around just barely in earshot, clearly wasting his time on this rather than on anything important that he could be helping with around the ship that, you know, _needs_ to get done.

Dolce is so over it already.

«He’s not _stupid_. That’s a big part of his problem. Why do you care, anyway? Are you planning on meddling with them?»

Pico laughs breathily and waves Dolce off. «No, no, bleh, of course not! You really think I care about Leon’s relationship drama? I think I’ve seen more than enough of it for one lifetime, actually. In fact… I’m _much_ more interested in what’s going on with you, Dolly!»

Dolce frowns. «Nothing’s ‘going on’ with me.»

«Oh, uhuh, _sure_ it isn’t,» Pico replies, smirking. Her hands are practically shaking with mirth even as she signs. «That’s why you personally escorted our prisoner to me, and why you stuck around the whole time to make sure you knew she was okay, right?»

«She’s dangerous,» Dolce says carefully, squinting against the harsh sunlight. At least the ocean breeze keeps it fairly cool, out here.

Pico snorts extremely loudly from Dolce’s side. She knows Pico is well aware of what she’s doing, even if she can’t hear it for herself.

«Oh, _dangerous_ , yeah, for sure,» she signs, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at Dolce all the while. «Is that what we’re calling it now?»

Dolce purses her lips and looks away. «It is when I’m running on as little sleep and as much stress as I am currently.»

When she chances a glance back at Pico, Dolce finds an incredulous, open-mouthed smile on her face. «Well, shit, you really _are_ tired, aren’t you?»

Grimacing as she thinks about how much she’d like to simply drop to the deck and curl up and take a nap right here, Dolce replies, «No shit. What, did you think I was lying?»

«Lady, just who are you and what did you do with my Dolly?»

Pico laughs at the grumpy expression Dolce pulls in response, not seeming particularly bothered to apparently be talking to some kind of imposter.

«So, ‘dangerous,’ huh? Alright, I get it, I gotcha. I’ll be sure to keep an eye on her for ya, so to speak,» Pico decides with a wide smirk and an overly-exaggerated wink.

Dolce sighs, but she doesn’t have the energy to argue about it. Which is especially unfortunate when it leaves Pico feeling like she’s won. But that’s a problem for Later Dolce.

Present Dolce takes a moment to look out over the deck again.

She starts out watching Clorica, but after a moment her eyes drift back over to the other people over in that area, instead. Or, specifically, to where their respective captains are sharing an equally intense glare as they vaguely orbit around each other. Of course, instead of actually helping out with anything himself, Leon is wasting time antagonizing Lest. Dolce isn’t sure why she expected anything else would happen when she took her eyes off of babysitting him long enough for him to be left to his own devices.

Dolce slumps into Pico, just a bit. Pico jumps at the contact, not startled at the touch itself but more seeming shocked that Dolce had initiated it. Pico is far from the biggest or strongest person in the world, very far, but she’s one of a select few people Dolce would feel comfortable leaning her weight against like this. And it’s not like Pico’s going to complain about it. In fact, Dolce has a fairly good feeling that she’s enjoying herself rather than putting up with anything.

Pico shakes her head very slightly, and though she doesn’t actually sign anything, Dolce understands her to be saying, _Damn, you really_ are _tired._

“No shit,” Dolce whispers to herself. She wouldn’t be surprised if Pico caught it despite her lack of hearing, though, simply on account of how well she knows Dolce.

As they watch, Leon says something with an air reeking of being falsely casual, and Lest’s whole body tenses up. Dolce feels like she can see his nerves strangling themselves into angry knots from here as he wrestles with forcing himself not to make a lunge for Leon’s throat in broad daylight in the middle of the man’s own ship.

Dolce sighs. Clorica might be dangerous in her own right, but…

When it comes to _‘dangerous,’_ those two are nigh untouchable. No one even comes close to these idiot captains in terms of the amount of danger they pose to themselves and others. And that’s usually just on their own, in completely disparate places.

Who knows how terribly out of control things are going to spiral from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will continue to push my Pico dialogue guillemets agenda, yes, thank you very much. Also, if anyone was curious, the "doll" sign that I mentioned is from ASL specifically, which I am unfortunately not fluent in (maybe someday). I apologize if my descriptions are lacking or Especially if somehow the name sign I came up with for Pico to give Dolce is some kind of offensive word or something, I did try to look into it but I couldn't find anything to suggest that it was, lol. Unless I specify otherwise, you can assume that Dolce is always translating for Pico when they're together bc she's a good friend like that :)
> 
> Shoutout to the Dolce POV for saving my ass, btw. We'll get to Leon, I promise, but part of the reason this chapter took so long was me trying to force this part through his perspective and just not having it work, like, at all. Next time: Chapter 3 - The Water's Always Greener on the Other Side


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